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"Dad," Jughead says, and takes a step back. His hand is still wrapped around the handle of the booth door. "What are you doing here?"
FP leans his arm up against the door frame. Behind him, the July sunshine flashes dazzling along another motorcycle rolling past. "I was nearby, figured I'd come see how you were. Can I come in?"
"Uh, yeah," Jughead says, and lets the door slip out from under his fingers as he takes another step back. "Sure," he says, brows tight as he glances camera-flash quick over his dad before he turns around. It's two steps back to his chair behind the projector, and the desk fan ruffles his hair as he slumps into his seat.
FP is still leaning against the door when Jughead looks up, silhouetted against the summer. There's a shout in the distance, the sound of clanging glass and revving engines as the smells of dust and gas and hot grass creep in around him.
"I've noticed your guys are hanging around more. Anything I should know about?" Jughead says, stretching out his legs.
FP presses his lips together, looking around the booth for a long moment. He taps his knuckles against the door frame like he's checking for woodworm. "I've just asked them to keep an eye on you, that's all. Make sure no one's hassling you."
"Right. Because this empty field is such a hotbed of crime," Jughead says, his smile crooked, and when FP looks away there's that familiar acidic twist low in his gut. Jughead digs his teeth into his lip.
"Hey, could you shut the door? I'm trying to keep the heat out," he says.
"Yeah," FP says, and Jughead studies his own hands as the door snicks shut. A beat, and when Jughead looks up again he catches FP eyeing the hotplate.
"You cooking in here?" FP asks.
"Oh, yeah. Real gourmet cuisine, only the best from the Twilight Drive-in."
For a moment, it looks like FP might say something; a ripple of parental concern in the shadows of his expression.
"A man cannot survive on a lifetime's supply of popcorn alone," Jughead adds, and leans back in his chair to reach around the side of the projector. "Here, I've got a few reels to check. You could stay for a while," Jughead says, and drops a half-empty bag of popcorn on the edge of table. He snags one between his fingers and flicks it into his mouth; chews, swallows. "If you want."
This is how they communicate these days; nonchalance and casual reaching out that can easily be brushed off, waiting to see who will crack first and try to talk about something serious; both hoping the other won't.
"Sure," FP says. He sits down on the upturned crate that's been doubling as a table, and snatches the popcorn bag just as Jughead reaches for it.
"What we watching?" FP says, grinning.
"I'm trying to choose between The Old Dark House, The Uninvited or Black Sunday for our double feature night this weekend. Any preference?"
"What, no romantic comedies?"
Jughead makes a sound that's not quite a laugh, the smile genuine in the corners of his mouth for a moment before it slips away. "Well, with all the talk about this place maybe being sold after the summer, I figured I'd do a Halloween in July kind of thing. Might be the last chance we get."
"Yeah," FP says, oddly soft. He shakes the popcorn bag like he's panning for gold, peers inside, doesn't take one. "You got a favourite?"
"You know me, dad. Anything made long before I was born has my vote."
That gets a low, huffed kind of laugh; it feels like a win. "Just pick whatever's appropriate for a kid your age, alright? Let me pretend I'm doing something right," FP says, settling back against the wall.
Jughead's mouth does something small and quick, hidden as he looks away. "Sure, Dad," Jughead says, and picks up the longest reel.