Chapter Text
Eight blocks away.
Jughead sat in the back corner of his local coffee shop, inhaling the scent of freshly ground beans and finding solace in the way his fingers danced so easily across the keyboard.
He took a sip of his black coffee, cold now as he had left it sitting too long, abandoned when he’d gotten swept up in his writing. He figured he should probably get a new one, the staff here was familiar with him and would happily give him a refill, but the bitter taste was only fueling his melancholy further, and it felt appropriate. It was a mild form of punishment, holding no real meaning. He found himself inflicting these punishments on himself a lot lately: not bothering to turn on lights when he came home, forcing himself to walk through puddles instead of around them, letting his shower water run just a bit too hot to be comfortable.
He supposed that’s just what you do when life has lost all of its color.
His phone buzzed for what had to be the millionth time that afternoon, and he looked down to see yet another string of texts from Archie.
You’re still coming to the party right?
Don’t bail on me again bro
We’ve got to get you back out there
He picked up his phone to type a response, but found he didn’t have the energy to come up with an excuse. And he certainly wasn’t going to agree to go. He’d find time to reply later.
His eyes flickered up toward the empty seat across from him. Tables are often meant for two, and this one was no exception. If he stared long enough he could picture her sitting there, her lashes fluttering as she glanced up at him, a small smile playing across her lips.
“What are you doing silly?” She tapped her pencil on the top of his laptop, “You’ve got a deadline to meet. You need to focus.” Her green eyes glimmered as they met his, “The sooner you finish the sooner we can go back to my place.”
“Well that’s certainly not going to help me focus.” He laughed.
He shook himself out of his daydream and returned to his work, allowing himself to get swept up in his narrative the way he so often did. He had spent hours at this table writing. His apartment was much too stuffy, much too familiar. The coffee shop provided the perfect balance of comfort and stimulation. New people flowed in and out each day, often tourists. Jughead liked to observe them from the back of the shop, to imagine what their lives must be like.
Today a couple caught his attention. It was obvious to Jughead that this was their first date. There were so many dead giveaways: the awkward hug at the beginning, how he intercepted her coffee bill when she tried to pay, the nervous way he rubbed his hands together and she twirled the ends of her hair.
He watched as they slowly found a conversational rhythm, her laugh becoming more genuine and his smile brightening past its initial shyness. There was so much hope to be found in them. Hope for a future, hope for love, hope for a new start.
Hope he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Isn’t it beautiful how they’re still in love?” she mused, eyes drifting to the elderly couple that had taken residence at a table a few feet away.
“I guess,” He replied, barely looking up from his screen, “I’m sure they’ve had plenty of issues.”
She pursed her lips and gently kicked him under the table, “C’mon Juggie, you have to stop looking at the whole world like it’s broken. There has to be at least one thing that doesn’t make you think the whole world is doomed.”
He looked up at her then, his eyes settling on the golden ray of hope who brought life to his monochrome world, “There is.”
He watched the new couple a little while longer before glancing at his watch and deciding it was time to head home. He picked up his phone and typed a lame excuse to Archie about having to meet a deadline. With a heavy sigh he stood, giving a small wave to the barista and stepping out into the cool autumn air.
Eleven blocks away.
His apartment was small and incredibly lackluster. When he had first moved in he put a lot of effort into keeping the place tidy, even keeping plants by the window in an effort to liven the place up. He had long since abandoned any such plans, constantly too drained to bother with appearances.
He opened the fridge and pretended to examine his options before closing it and reaching for the takeout pamphlets like he always did. Settling on pizza, her pulled his phone out of his pocket and noticed a missed call from Archie, presumably made on his walk home. He hit the call back button and braced himself.
“Jughead!” He winced at the overly enthusiastic welcome, “What the hell, man? You cannot seriously be bailing on me. This is like the fifth party you’re skipping! You can’t do this!”
“Sorry Arch, I’m just… I gotta meet this deadline.”
“I happen to know that your ahead on your work right now. You’re coming.”
“I don’t know…”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and when Archie finally spoke his tone was gentler, “It’s been over two years, Jug. You can’t stay holed up forever.”
Jughead squeezed his eyes shut at the words, wishing them away. He swallowed hard, his voice gruff when he finally responded, “Fine. I’ll come.”
He hung up before Archie could say anything else and released a few choice expletives beneath his breath. He paused for a beat to collect himself before picking up the phone once more, this time dialing in for pizza.
He opened the door and was instantly greeted with the overwhelming scent of cheese and tomato sauce. Music was playing from a speaker somewhere, and he could hear her loudly singing along.
He rounded the corner slowly and smiled as he watched her dance between the counter and the stove top, oblivious to everything else. A part of him didn’t want to speak up, wanted to simply let her continue on forever uninterrupted. Nevertheless he cleared his throat and said hello to alert her to his presence.
She jumped back, clutching an oven mitt to her chest. “Juggie! You scared me!” She laughed breathlessly, “Why are you home so early?”
He crossed the room, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her gently, “I finished the latest chapter and sent it off to my editor. He won’t get it back to me until tomorrow.”
“Well I was going to surprise you with dinner…” She pouted slightly, her finger absentmindedly tracing its way down his chest, “but since you came home early it isn’t finished.”
“It still smells amazing. What is it?”
“Homemade pizza!” She exclaimed, stepping out of his embrace to check its progress.
He laughed, leaning up against the counter as he watched her, “You really do know the way to my heart.”
The delivery guy arrived forty-five minutes later. Jughead sat down at his table, taking a bite of pizza and wishing it tasted a little less like cardboard and a little more like love.
Fourteen blocks away.
Rooftop parties were overrated. Especially when it was late August and the sun had set and everything was slightly damp with the late night moisture. Jughead had been to a million of these over the course of his career, and this one was just like all the others – full of boring people trying way too hard to impress one another.
He meandered around for a bit, talking to a few people he knew from the publishing company. It was later in the evening now, the chatter subdued around him. With any luck he’d be able to leave soon.
“Jughead!” Archie called out suddenly, coming up behind him and slapping his arm over Jughead’s shoulder. “You made it! Perfect timing, I need a wingman.”
Jughead groaned internally but complied, allowing Archie to lead him toward two particularly leggy women nursing oddly-colored cocktails.
“Jughead, this is Amber and Brittany.” Archie introduced.
“Omigosh, you’re Jughead Jones?” Amber asked, eyes widening with recognition, “I loved your first book! Sooooo dark.”
“Uh, thanks.” Jughead mumbled, noting Archie already slipping away with the other girl.
“So,” Amber started, a flirty smile playing across her overly-glossed lips, “Are you writing a second one?”
“Sorry what?”
“I asked if you’re writing a follow up to your first work?” The unfamiliar blonde smiled at him hesitantly, “Sorry, you probably get that question a lot.”
He did get the question a lot, and it was one he typically avoided, but he felt he should make an exception for her. He couldn’t help it, he knew he wanted to get to know this stranger, “It’s in the early stages.” He winked, “Very early.”
“You know, you’re not as rude as everyone says you are.” She mused absentmindedly, regretting instantly filling her gorgeous green eyes, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“
“No, it’s okay.” He stopped her, finding it impossible to be offended by her sincerity, “I do have quite the reputation. It comes with the territory, writing such somber material.” He felt a sudden surge of confidence overcome him, “You seem to have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I don’t know who you are. Miss…” He trailed off, leaving her to fill in the blank.
The girl tilted her head ever-so-slightly, an amused gesture he would become very familiar with in the coming months. A smile grew across her lips as she offered her hand in official greeting.
“Betty.”
He needed a smoke.
He left Amber in a manner he was sure Archie would chew him out for earlier, but he honestly didn’t care. Despite the fact that he was already outside (that was, in fact, the whole point of a rooftop party) he took the elevator down to the ground floor and stepped out onto the curb before lighting up.
It was a nasty habit. He knew it, the middle-aged woman sending him a judgmental look as she passed knew it, but it gave him comfort nonetheless. He’d picked it up after college and couldn’t stop. It wasn’t surprising, given his family. Addictive personality, he believed it was called. A particular set of personality traits that predisposed him to developing addictions. He’d seen the downfall of the bottle, witnessed the chains that came with pills, even been privy to the heartache that accompanied gambling. He figured smoking was as minimal of a habit as a guy like him could hope for.
Another party-goer came out and stood on the curb next to him. A brunette, with wild curls and a slim figure.
“Got a light?” She asked, holding out her cigarette.
He didn’t say anything, silently pulling his lighter from his jacket pocket and setting it ablaze. She gratefully lit up her cigarette and took a drag, exhaling dramatically.
“Not much for parties, huh?” She asked jokingly, looking out onto the street rather than at Jughead directly.
“The more I attend the more I realize they’re all the same.”
“Exactly.” She agreed, the two of them settling into a comfortable silence.
Jughead watched her out of the corner of his eye as she took another drag. She was quite striking. And he really didn’t have much to lose.
“Hey,” he said abruptly, breaking the silence, “Do you want to get out of here?”
She looked at him for a moment, as if assessing whether or not he might try to whisk her off to an alley and kill her. She seemed to deem him nonthreatening, however, because she smiled. “What the hell, why not.”
Two blocks away.
Her name was Vanessa. She was bold and bright and confident and everything Jughead was not. She gave him relief from himself, a welcome reprise from the mediocrity of his life.
He had promised to make her dinner tonight, for their six month anniversary. He’d never really been good at cooking, but after some careful googling he had settled on a recipe for pasta casserole that seemed simple enough.
The dinner required spices he wasn’t sure she’d have in her apartment, which is how he ended up at some over-hyped spice store seven blocks away. Get in and get out, that was his mission. Except this store was covered in spices, shelves and shelves of it. He didn’t even know so many options existed. He considered asking one of the employees for help, but he caught sight of a man-bun and quickly became determined to find what he needed himself.
It took Jughead almost a full twenty minutes to find what he was looking for, and by the time his purchases were being rung up he was growing increasingly anxious. He didn’t like to spend much time on this side of the city past five o’clock. A flash of blonde hair passing by the window quickly reminded him why.
“Isn’t it funny how we can only live a few blocks away and somehow inhabit totally different worlds?” She asked, her fingers interlocking with his as they passed a series of shops on the sidewalk.
“Yeah, I live in the real world and you live in hipster heaven.”
She laughed, “It’s not ‘hipster heaven’. Local shops are important! You’re just upset because your apartment is grimy.”
“It’s not grimy!” He protested, “It just has character. I’m getting the true New York experience.”
She giggled, placing a quick peck on his cheek before continuing down the sidewalk, “Whatever you say. Just you wait, I’ll have you singing Kumbaya and buying organic in no time.”
“Oh man,” Jughead rolled his eyes, “can’t wait.”
He grabbed his bag and bolted out the door, his head turning instantly in the direction she had been walking. Nothing. She was gone. She was probably never there. Just his mind playing tricks on him.
He needed to get out of this apartment.
Nine blocks away.
Turns out pasta casserole isn’t as simple as the internet had let him to believe. Vanessa was set to arrive any minute and he was still trying to figure out how to whisk cheese on a stove top. So much for a romantic dinner.
When Vanessa came home she found Jughead standing in her kitchen, surrounded by various ingredients and looking like a deer caught in headlights.
“How’s dinner coming?” She asked sarcastically.
He didn’t even look at her, too flustered to respond with anything more than an aggravated grumble. She reached up and wrangled her curls into an elastic, picking up a fork and pushing Jughead aside. He watched as she grabbed hold of the pan and expertly whisked the milk and cheese together.
“Pasta casserole, huh?”
“I tried.” He apologized, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Jughead,” She laughed, “I know you can’t cook. Don’t worry it’s cute. It’s one of the many reasons I love you.”
“I love you.” She whispered, her hands reaching up to push a stray curl out of his face before leaning in and placing a gentle kiss on his temple.
He sighed into her touch, closing his eyes for a moment and making a conscious effort to relax the strain in his shoulders.
“You’ll get through this block,” She promised, fingers leaving his skin and brushing across the pages splayed out in front of him, each one covered in red ink. “It’s just one bad chapter. It won’t last.” She began to step away, pausing in the doorway to repeat the phrase that had started to resemble a mantra, “I love you.”
Jughead smiled, placing a playful kiss on her lips.
“I love you too Vanessa.”
Eleven blocks away.
Jughead slammed the door to his apartment shut behind him. “Vanessa!” He called out, “I got us Chipotle for dinner. Don’t worry, I got extra guac just like you prefer.” He placed the take out on the kitchen counter, “Vanessa?” He called again, surprised at the lack of response. He shuffled out of the kitchen and into the living room only to find it empty. How hard was it to lose someone in an apartment this small?
He stepped up to the door of his bedroom, slowly pushing the door open. “Vanessa?” He asked again, his breath catching in surprise when his eyes finally landed on her. She was sitting at his desk, a fistful of manuscript in her palm.
“Jughead?” Vanessa asked, her brown eyes brimming with anxiety. “What is this?”
Jughead felt the ground fall out beneath him as he tried to take steps toward her, “It’s nothing.”
“Can’t you just leave me alone? It’s nothing, I’ll deal with it on my own.” Jughead grumbled.
“Jughead you can’t keep shutting me out!” Betty insisted.
Vanessa laughed in disbelief, pressing her lips together before standing up to meet him. “It’s not nothing.”
He looked her in the eye and quickly looked away, the pain he saw there too much to handle.
“Who is she?”
“She’s nobody!” He insisted, watching her fists curl around the title page. “It’s nothing.”
“She’s not nobody, Jughead.” Vanessa gestured over toward the stack of papers spread out across the table, “If she was nobody you wouldn’t have spent the last three years of your life writing about her.”
“You think I haven’t noticed how things have changed?” Betty cried, “You think I haven’t seen how your work has been tearing our relationship apart?”
He didn’t respond, couldn’t respond.
“Do you…” Vanessa whispered, “do you still love her?”
“Do you still love me?” Betty asked, tears brimming over as she stood in the middle of his apartment – their apartment.
He stood facing her, the few feet between them feeling like a world of distance.
“I’ve been having a hard time lately,” He defended, arms crossing over his chest like makeshift armor, “My editor hasn’t like a single sentence I’ve sent him in months!”
“And you blame me, don’t you?”
It was the first time she had outright asked it, and the moment the words left her lips she wished she could take them back. It was the question they’d been skirting around for weeks, knowing how risky exposing the truth could be.
“Jughead,” Vanessa pleaded, repeating herself, “do you still love her?”
Jughead felt his heart crumple at the ache of her tone, forcing his walls to fall and let the pain came flooding back in. All the heartache and loss and loneliness he had felt for three years, it was all in her tone. It wasn’t anger, it wasn’t hatred, it wasn’t resentment. It was tragic, all-consuming, heartbreak.
“You think that you can’t write dark material, because I make you too happy.” Betty whispered, afraid to continue but knowing it was much too late to stop, “But it’s not true. You haven’t allowed me to make you happy for a long time now. Instead, you’ve just made both of us miserable. And you’re still stuck.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Her question hung in the air, begging to be answered. They stood in patient silence as he searched for something, anything, to say.
“Well if you’re so miserable why are you still here?” His tone was spitting, dark eyes reflecting the hardness of his heart.
“I’m so sorry.” Was all he could manage.
Betty just looked at him for a moment, her hurt giving way to a defeated resignation.
“I don’t know.”
Vanessa nodded her head as the truth set in. With the title page still in her hand she took a step toward him, placing it gently on his chest. His hand instinctively reached up to cover hers.
“You should go after her.” She whispered in his ear, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. She didn’t even look at him as she left, leaving him standing alone in his room with nothing but his own words to destroy him once again.
It took Jughead three full weeks to leave the apartment after Vanessa left.
The first week he grieved. Archie left messages, none of which garnered a response. Jughead didn’t feel like talking, instead choosing to curl up inside himself and let the pain and suffering of his entire world consume him. He spent his days in bed staring at the ceiling, only looking away when he needed to eat or sleep.
The second week he purged. Overcome with anger and annoyance, he threw everything that reminded him of Vanessa off the fire escape. Gone were the picture frames, the ridiculous mini plants, even the leftovers in the fridge from their last meal out. He cleaned everything, scrubbing the counter tops and washing the sheets, doing whatever he could to remove all traces of her from his apartment.
The third week he wrote. He picked up the pages Vanessa had thrown at him, calmly placed them next to his laptop, and began to write it all. He wrote about Betty, about the love she had gifted him. He painted portraits of her smile, created sonnets of her laughter, crafted poetry of her light. And then he wrote about his pain, the way he felt when she left him. He conceived paragraphs of his heartache, authored pages of his anger, drew images of his darkness. Everything he had denied himself of the past three years exposed itself on white pages, giving way to intense clarity. The words that were left colored a clear picture, one Jughead should have been able to see all along; Betty had been his everything, and, even after three years without her, she still was.
When he finished, he printed it all out and set it on his desk, pausing to take in the small stack of papers that now contained his entire soul.
And then Jughead stood up, gathered his work, and left his apartment.
Eleven blocks away.
He didn’t stop to think, letting his feet begin to trod the course he had long ignored, but never truly forgotten.
Ten blocks away.
He held his pages close to his chest, as though afraid they might fly away if he were to let go. Jughead wasn’t quite certain of his plan, but this was the most courage he had managed to muster in three years and he certainly wasn’t going to let it go to waste.
Eight blocks away.
He passed the coffee shop where he’d spent so many days writing about his pain. He had always seen it as a healthy way of grieving, but he knew now that years of writing apologies meant nothing if he never delivered them.
Five blocks away.
His heart began to pound in time with his footsteps, increasing in intensity with each passing building. He was really going to do this.
Two blocks away.
He was close now, and he didn’t know how but he could feel her. He realized he had always felt her.
One block away.
He gripped the manuscript tighter in his hands, praying to God it was enough.
Zero blocks away.
He stood in front of her door, still familiar after all this time. On the other side of that door lay a multitude of possibilities, each one more dizzying than the last. Three years of distance stood between him and that door, three years of life that went on without him – despite him. He wasn’t quite sure what was waiting for him on the other side, but he knew he had to find out.
He took a deep breath and knocked.