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When Fred Andrews’ boy gets back from a seven-year stint in the Peace Corps that half the town thought would never have an end date, a lot’s changed about him, but the car’s the same.
“You did a hell of a lot more than just keep her in one piece,” he says after seeing how smoothly she runs on the drive to Pop’s, laughing and shaking his head, and Betty smiles widely at the compliment.
“Wouldn’t be much of a mechanic if I didn’t,” she points out, and he tips his glass at her in acknowledgment.
“I appreciate it,” he says, holding her gaze in a way she can’t shrug out of. His fiddling with his straw does nothing to diminish his intensity. “Listen, Betty, I know this ain’t what you planned on, stayin’ in town and all, but—it sure is good to see you.”
Her expression is heavy with aches he can only partially categorize: the letter from Yale turned down in favor of a degree from Riverdale Community College, the sale of her childhood home, the loving but often difficult rooming situation with her sister and two young kids, the stiff performativity of Sunday dinners at her mom’s apartment, the evacuation of her first love to a different corner of the country. When Archie was fucking around on Facebook for the first time in ages at the airport, a notification informed him of Ronnie’s recent anniversary.
It’s something they’ve both been forced to contend with since they were fifteen, the fact that Life Happens and the best-laid plans of Coopers and Andrews and, hell, even Lodges have no impact on where the chips fall.
“It’s good to see you, too, Arch,” she says, and at least he can still tell she means it.
One other thing that hasn’t changed: Toni Topaz remains a force to be reckoned with. Within five minutes of reaching the booth, she’s caught Archie up on everything he either hasn’t been told or has forgotten from sporadic WhatsApp exchanges over the years: who stuck around, who left and came back or got dragged back, who’s gone for good unless their luck turns sour; the teacher shortages, the gentrification that isn’t so much looming as swallowing whole every scrap of sidewalk it can get its hands on, the location and dimensions of each crack in the county’s infrastructure. “Don’t drink the water,” she ends with, and Archie blinks. “Sweet Pea and any other Serpent who works a shift stocking shelves have been lifting gallons when they can, so let me know if you’re in a tight spot, but you probably want to stock up sooner rather than later.”
“Got it,” he says, and Toni snorts.
“You can redirect that clenched fist at Georgia Power,” she says, nodding at where his hands are apparently not covered enough by the table, and Archie grins abashedly.
“So Jug’s still around?” he asks after a moment, and Toni and Betty share a look that isn’t remotely subtle.
“Yep,” Toni says, enunciating heavily. “Manager at the Bijou, and he picks up night shifts at the Paramount in Greendale sometimes, although a lot less now that he and FP have put JB through trade school. And yes, he still mourns the loss of the Twilight Drive-In loudly and often.”
Archie chuckles despite the tightness in his chest. “And FP—I mean, is Andrews Construction—”
“Still Andrews Construction,” Toni affirms with a nod, and Archie exhales hard. “Mr. Keller’s doing a good job with it. Says he’ll always have an opening for you if you want it.”
Archie nods without really feeling his body move, the loss still stinging like a failure despite how many times everybody tells him it isn’t. But medical debt won’t pay itself, even when all those procedures only bought two years in the end, and when it came down to the construction company or the house—well. It’s done now, has been since he was practically still a kid.
“I think I’ll try your idea first,” he says, and Toni nods. The Peace Corps has left him with $10k for “the transition period” and a TEFL certification, which kinda-but-not-completely bends Georgia’s alternative teaching certification policy—he doesn’t have a bachelor’s, but ESOL is a high-demand area and he is qualified, weird as that is to think about, so it looks like the Life After that he’s mainly avoided thinking about is going to consist of teaching under provisional licensure in his hometown while working towards a degree.
There are worse things, Archie’s seen them, so maybe it’s not so strange to be excited about it.
“Look at us, Arch,” Betty says, bumping her shoulder into his. “Coworkers.”
“Back to being Bulldogs, god help us,” Toni says, holding her milkshake glass out, and they clink their own against it.
*
It feels weird to be having a housewarming for a place he’s lived in most of his life, but he also doesn’t exactly own much in the way of… well, anything, so he has to admit his mom was right. He knows being here weighs on her even without having to interact with her old frenemies, so he waits until after the end of the week she spends getting him settled and hugging him tightly and trying to convince him to come up to Chicago for Christmas.
He’s still in his childhood bedroom. He didn’t even consider switching to the master until his mom suggested it, and in the end it just felt too weird.
It’s all weird. Being back in Riverdale is like opening a time capsule of his self, and Archie doesn’t like a lot of what he sees. Wants to look away from even more.
He can’t say he’s learned much about how to nod and smile in the meantime, but at least he’s maybe got something to look forward to today.
Mrs. Cooper—uh, Smith—gives him a CrockPot. Mr. Keller brings some old but well cared for pots and pans. Toni, Kevin, and Fangs bestow upon him color-coordinated sheets and bedspread and towels that look inexplicably adult ; “I knew you’d be sleeping on the same stuff from high school,” Kevin says, patting him on the shoulder, and Archie doesn’t mention that he’s been sleeping on top of a bare mattress and a blanket from Walmart. They didn’t bother getting a storage unit when Mom started renting out the house; everything he kept, she brought with her on the plane.
Somebody invited Tabitha, who Archie met briefly at Pop’s the other day, and she gives him a kind smile, a set of dish towels, and a pack of heavy-duty sponges. Reggie arrives with a gently-used coffee pot and a couple of mugs. Betty lets herself into the garage and deposits a tool box, and Polly doesn’t ask before walking upstairs to hang the curtains in her arms in his bedroom window, an unexpected and jarring reminder that they don’t live next door anymore. Sweet Pea gives him a box of protein bars, a couple of gallons of water, and a funny look when Archie tries to apologize for pulling a gun on him that one time.
Two packages arrived, one yesterday and one today; the first was a set of more types of glasses than Archie knew existed with a note that simply said –Hermione , and the second was a spice rack already filled with hand-labeled jars with a letter from Cheryl that made him cry.
The doorbell rings again. Archie opens it and has the wild urge to give everything away, or, like, set it on fire, so they have to do this again tomorrow. And the next day. And—
“My first instinct was to bring a six-pack, but I figured seeing me with that would probably bring back some less-than-savory memories,” FP is saying, but Archie doesn’t really hear him, is too busy looking over his shoulder.
Jughead gives a sarcastic little wave of his fingers, but he’s smiling. “If you hate them, I’m not sure the Dollar Store does returns,” he says, thrusting an armful of china plates and bowls at Archie. “They’re microwaveable, I checked.”
They’re solid white, the surface plain and smooth. “I love them,” Archie says, and he means it. He’ll be thinking about Jughead every time he eats, but like, what else is new. He backs up and opens the door wider. “Uh—please, come in.”
“Can’t,” Jughead says, crossing his arms. “I’ve got work in a minute. But, uh, I’m off Friday—me and Betty do dinner at her place once a month, if you wanna join.”
“Yes,” Archie says, “Yeah, absolutely. I’d love to.”
Jughead nods once. “See you then,” he says, flicking a two-fingered salute as he turns and heads toward the same beat-up truck FP had when they were kids, and he’s smiling, that small, wary one, right in the corner of his mouth.
FP claps him on the shoulder and comes inside.
It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that Archie went to his fair share of parties in high school. That he wanted to, would nudge Reggie or drag Jughead into coming with him (but not both at once—he didn’t make that mistake twice). He had, at one point in his life—hell, for most of his life—thrived on moving through a crowd, making small talk, causing a ruckus. He feels too damn heavy for that now, in his shoulders and his quads and his heart, wants to crawl up to his bare bedroom and bury his head under a nonexistent pillow rather than add the weight of everybody else’s seven years onto his own. But he came here for a reason, turned down his mom’s offer of her and Brooke’s spare bedroom while he gets back on his feet and ignored a handful of Corps buddies’ roommate searches, and—
And his daddy was good at this. Loved it and this town more than maybe anybody else ever could, always said he’d bleed red clay. So Archie musters up as much of a smile as his face will fit these days and goes to make the rounds.
“Reckon you can give me a ride to Sunnyside?” FP asks after a few hours, when the crowd has dwindled as folks make their way back to their own homes to start cooking supper. “Jughead’s got the truck until he gets off at 11.”
“Sure thing,” Archie says, grabbing his keys. They fit solid and familiar in the curve of his palm, and he has to set his shoulders against the sense memory.
FP whistles low when they settle into the front seats of the jalopy. “Your daddy was a miracle worker, I’ll tell you what.”
Archie swallows hard. “You could say that again.” He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, remembering how his dad had polished even that until it shone. “Buying this car was the best decision I ever made, to be honest.”
FP nods, looking out in the direction of where his arm dangles out the window. He looks in this moment like such a snapshot of a future Jughead that it aches, wonderful and tragic at once, like one of those plastic bookmarks that’d show a different picture depending on how you tilted it. Kinda cool, but mostly dizzying.
“I didn’t get a lotta moments like that with my old man,” he says after a minute, swiping his hand over his mouth and the scruff on his chin. There is, again, Jughead in the gesture. “I know, uh—I know that to say y’all went through hell in high school is an understatement, and you especially, to hear Jughead tell it, so I’m really glad you have that.”
“Me, too,” Archie says, making the turn to pull into Sunnyside. “Thank you.”
“Well, looks like this is my stop,” FP says, and then leans back down to catch Archie’s eye through the open window after getting out. “Don’t be a stranger, alright? I know you’ve had our number memorized since you came up to here,” he gestures at waist height, “so you need anything, you call me, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Archie says, and he’s—there’s a tear prickling in his eye, yeah. He and Jughead may have been having a rocky patch during the worst of his relationship with FP, but he knows that even as that improved, Jughead had more than one sleepless night over how he was gonna put JB through college by himself. Archie’s just… really damn glad he didn’t have to, that for this one thing, a touch-and-go situation didn’t end in the worst possible way. Hell, if he doesn’t get to have a dad anymore, he’s glad—has been glad, remains glad—Jughead finally does. If you’d told him at fifteen that FP would be offering him support like this and that Archie would trust it, he wouldn’t’ve believed you, but if he’d somehow been able to know it for sure, it might’ve changed how he thought about the world.
“I appreciate it,” Archie says, looking at him, and FP gives him a firm and somehow comforting nod before walking up to the familiar door. Archie waits until he’s inside safely before he backs out.
*
Apparently the parking outside Polly and Betty’s apartment complex is atrocious on a good day, so Betty picks him and Jughead up in her truck, which Archie swears has been running on duct tape and a prayer since senior year. Betty Cooper has certainly worked more than one miracle of her own. Jughead leans his head up between the front two seats and interjects sarcastic commentary or gossip about just about every house they pass, even when Betty takes a hand off the wheel to swat at him, and by the time they park, Archie’s starting to feel like he’s back home rather than just back.
“How those plates been treatin’ you?” Jughead asks when they get inside, then winces. “Jesus, I sound like my dad.”
Archie doesn’t ask if he sounds like his dad, but he considers, and he hopes. “They’re great,” he says. “And the curtains, too—everything’s great. Used one of your wrenches to fix a leak in the sink,” he adds, nodding at Betty, and she smiles approvingly.
“The twins are at Mom’s for the night and I work the closing shift tomorrow, so I am gonna break into this,” Polly announces, holding up a bottle of wine. “Any takers?”
Jughead shakes his head. “Still having nightmares about darkening the door of a twelve-step program, so I’ll pass. Enjoy some for me, though.”
Polly nods, raising her empty glass to him in a mock toast. “I’ll try some,” Archie says, because he’s had one day off a month for the past seven years, and for the first time in ages it won’t be wasting anything if he’s in bed most of the day tomorrow. He’s never really been good at giving himself a break, but he’s trying, dodging at least the most obvious ways he could crash and burn upon returning. Polly pours them both a glass while Betty stands and heads for the fridge.
“I got a migraine last time I drank, so I am joining Team Sweet Tea for the evening,” she says, returning after a moment with glasses for her and Jughead. Archie knows without asking that the ice cubes were made with bottled water.
“The food looks amazing,” Archie says, gesturing at the table, and Polly grins.
“Thank you,” she says, bowing in her seat. “Dig in.”
Jughead doesn’t have to be told twice, and Archie is not about to get choked up over that right now. It’s just nice that some things never change, comforting in a way even his familiar house isn’t.
The Cooper women have probably splurged for tonight; besides the wine, there’s country-fried steak, with butter beans and baked mac’n’cheese. Archie lets them love him like this, piles his plate without question or protest and can’t help but groan at his first bite.
“That good, huh?” Polly asks with a grin that’s both pleased and teasing. Archie nods.
“I’ve had some incredible food the past few years, don’t get me wrong,” he says, “but yeah. There’s nothin’ like home. A bunch of dad’s old friends brought casseroles and stuff when I moved in, and when I first took a bite of those collard greens, swear to god I started crying.”
“You couldn’t pay me to go seven years without collard greens,” Jughead says, shuddering, and Betty tilts her head.
“I wonder if everybody who moved away after high school misses the food.”
“I don’t think Veronica tried enough of anything to miss it,” Jughead says bluntly, taking another bite and talking with his mouth partially full. It’s a weird thing for Archie to be nostalgic about, but sue him. “The Pembrooke isn’t exactly known for representing the culinary predilections of the common folk.” Betty swats him with her napkin.
Jughead isn’t looking his way at the moment, so Archie tries to catch Polly’s eye to communicate, like, Is it safe to talk about Veronica now? Polly only shrugs, languid with her second glass of wine. Archie decides to let it rest.
Jughead has never had such restraint.
“You see her Facebook post?” he asks, and Betty presses her lips firmly together.
“Yup.”
“Mighty big ring,” he says, scoffing. “Ten bucks says they’re secretly miserable.”
“Ten bucks wouldn’t make a drop in the bucket of misery they can afford,” Polly says, and Jughead tips his head at her in agreement.
“She said when we were kids that she didn’t even have anything to miss about New York,” Betty says, and Jughead and Polly nod like this is a familiar path of conversation. “Why the fuck would she need to go back so bad.”
“Maybe she’s cheating on him with her friend that does the fashion shit,” Jughead offers. “What’s her name, uh, Katy.”
“If Katy Keene is queer, I’ll eat my fake fur coat,” Polly says, punctuating this with the clink of her fork against the plate. She tilts her head thoughtfully. “And then seduce her to get a real fur coat.” They laugh in unison.
“I’m sorry,” Archie says after a beat of silence, looking at Betty. “That must really suck.”
She smiles wryly. “Thanks, Arch. I don’t know, it’s ancient history, I’m just being ridiculous.” She redoes her ponytail as if physically putting the subject behind her, but Archie shakes his head.
“It’s not silly to care about someone, even if it’s been a long time.”
“However,” Polly says, pointing at each of them with her fork. “You shouldn’t let it stop you from getting with someone else. Namely, Tabitha Tate.” She sits back proudly. Betty rolls her eyes; this, too, is familiar territory, apparently.
“Have you seen how Toni looks at her? I think that window of opportunity has closed and locked.”
Polly shrugs. “Point taken. I don’t even know why I’m trying to push you onto anybody, anyway; Lord knows I’m fucked if you move out.”
“Maybe if somebody else moved in,” Archie suggests, and Polly snorts.
“Pretty sure most of the people who wouldn’t call CPS on me for making ends meet are in this room,” she says, dropping her napkin on the table next to her empty plate. “Much less not break up with me.”
Archie glances around, confused. “Sex work,” Polly specifies, not unkindly. “Gas station isn’t exactly known for paying a living wage.”
He nods. “I was in a, like, illegal fighting ring when I was in juvie,” he says, fidgeting with his fork. “Not, like—I’m not comparing the situations, because that was totally coercive, but my first thought was wondering if that sort of thing had been brought back to town.”
“Underground boxing?” Polly asks. “With these nails?”
“Fair point,” Archie says, laughing.
“Also, Arch, they’re definitely exaggerating,” Betty says, to which Jughead makes a who, me? gesture. “You started it,” she says, sticking her tongue out at him while he kicks at her shin. Archie sits back and crosses his arms, grinning. He feels something in his chest relax.
“I do date, is what I’m saying; they make it sound like I’ve been sitting around here pining for seven years.”
“You do?” Jughead asks, eyebrows raised, and Betty throws her napkin at him, something Archie’s been watching happen—and been on the receiving end of, a few times—most of his life.
“Jillian,” Betty says, like it proves her point. Jughead and Polly just stare at her blankly, and she heaves a sigh, crossing her arms and tipping her head back. “We broke up like a month ago, y’all can’t have forgotten her already.”
Polly shrugs. “Must not have made much of an impression.”
“Marsha,” Betty counters. “And Lizzie, from Greendale.”
“Neither of whom made it more than a couple months,” Jughead says, eyes glinting with clear amusement.
“Melody and I dated for like a year and a half before she moved to Atlanta!” Betty protests, and Jughead scoffs teasingly.
“Yeah, when you were 19.”
“Okay, well, you’re one to talk,” Betty says, turning in her seat to face him fully. “Where have all your boyfriends been, huh?”
Archie chokes on his wine.
Betty pales, uncrossing her arms. “Shit, I’m sorry, I thought he knew.”
Jughead snorts. “He should. Not my fault he doesn’t check his email.”
Archie blinks. Well, fuck.
“Anyway,” Jughead says, “I have never claimed not to be a hypocrite. The only action I’ve been getting is from Sweet Pea, which is on a strictly-friend basis, as he’s busy pining over someone from high school who fucked off, like apparently everyone else in this godforsaken town.”
Yourself included? Archie thinks, but he just clears his throat. “I’m sorry I missed your email, Jug.”
“You should be,” Jughead says, elbowing him in the side. “I stressed over the wording for days, asshole.” He’s smiling, though. “You can make it up to me by bringing my coffee and ice cream to me.”
Apparently that’s the traditional next step in these evenings, and they end up lounging on the Coopers’ couches with their desserts, trading the happier—or at least funnier—of their stories from the past several years. Polly’s impression of Mrs. Blossom inviting her to join her brothel has them all laughing until they cry; “Most awkward moment of my life,” she says, shuddering. Betty makes fun of the men who’ve thought they knew more about cars than her, all of whom most definitely did not, and Jughead gives scathing reviews of what he’s determined to be the worst films of the decade. Archie imitates the shrieking of the Peace Corps volunteers who were unprepared for not having access to hot water, as well as the stupefied looks he’d get every time he mentioned anything from his past.
“My last roommate, though, Eric, he was the best,” Archie says, grinning. “He’d always, like, get people tripped up in their own ableism and laugh at them—the condescending organizers and fuckin’ missionaries and shit, not anyone from a different, like, cultural context.” He looks down at his coffee mug for a moment, but not long. He’s never been one to think long before acting. “He’s the only person I’ve been with since high school, so I think Betty’s got the rest of us beat,” he says, draining the rest of his mug. “We parted on good terms, though, I’d love for y’all to meet him someday.”
He dares a glance up. Polly is smirking, and Betty is smiling softly at him, expression fond. Jughead stands and mumbles something about needing to go to the bathroom, walking down the short hallway.
“Honestly, y’all should be impressed with how many people I’ve managed to date,” Betty’s saying when he gets back, “I share a bedroom with my sister.”
Jughead shakes his head, grinning at the absurdity of a memory. “Before JB started dating their current girlfriend, we’d switch off sleeping with Dad whenever the other brought somebody home. The man could win a world record for snoring, I don’t know how y’all’s mom ever stood it.”
Archie laughs, then sobers as he thinks of it—Jughead’s bed in the trailer, the well-worn sheets under his back—
“You know,” he says, and stops. Clears his throat. “Uh, my parents got the house paid off when I was a teenager, and it’s just me in there. Any of y’all are welcome to come stay if you want.”
“You mean, like move in?” Jughead asks. His arms are crossed, and Archie can’t read his expression. Looks back at him seriously anyway.
“Yeah,” he says, and nods. Betty and Polly exchange a glance.
“And bonus, Mom’s not next door any more,” Polly says, leaning back into the corner of the couch and propping her head on her hand.
“Are you sure about this, Arch?” Betty asks, raising her eyebrows and giving him a look he’d been on the receiving end of on what feels like a daily basis throughout their childhood: one part gentle, one part condescending. “I mean, have you thought this through?”
“Freaks me out being alone in there,” he admits, which both is and isn’t an answer. Her gaze shifts to a different kind of concern, though, one that’s more understanding.
“It could work,” Jughead says, rubbing his chin. Archie thinks of FP in his front seat. “Betty and Polly in the master, the twins in the guest bedroom, me in the garage.” Archie doesn’t mention that in his mind, Jughead had been in his room. Like in high school, or maybe something different. Jughead shrugs. “If it sucks, I can always move back into the trailer.”
Polly exchanges a look with Betty, biting her lip. “Not having to pay rent would make a big difference,” she says. “We could afford to put the twins on your health insurance…”
“We’ve got the lease for another two months,” Betty says, looking back at Archie. “Take some time to think it over, okay? And then if you’re really sure, we’ll hammer out the details.”
“My dad built that house,” he says. “You were all family to him. He’d want you to be there.” Left unsaid is that he’s never been able to do enough to protect them the way he wants, but he can do this.
*
Betty, Polly, Juniper, and Dagwood move in two weeks before Thanksgiving.
Jughead’s already been here for a little over a month, and Archie’s sure he’s caught him staring at the swoop of his hair while he reads in the evening. It’s the kind of joy he never thought he could get used to, dropping Jughead off at work and picking him up again at night, both of their handwriting on the grocery list on the magnetized notepad stuck to the fridge. Jughead’s tuna melts every Friday, Archie cooking brunch on the weekends the way his dad used to.
“Flip that pancake on the left,” Archie calls from halfway up the stairs as he and Reggie wrangle Juniper’s chest of drawers. Jughead rolls his eyes but begins working the spatula under it before Archie takes another step and he’s out of sight.
That feels accurate to how fragile he keeps thinking things are, with no real reason other than that they always have been.
Four mattresses and bed frames, two bedside tables, one vanity, one bookshelf, one toy chest, and a cat tree later, they and Betty are panting and wiping their faces on their sweat-soaked shirts when Jughead brings them three piled-high plates with a look that dares Reggie to comment, all stacked along his arm like a waiter.
“I’ve picked up a few shifts at Pop’s over the years,” he says, shrugging, when Archie shoots him a surprised look. Betty drains her orange juice so fast some laws of physics have to have been bent.
“Can you make mine with chocolate chips, Uncle Jughead?” Dagwood asks, his most adorable expression plastered across his face. Jughead glances at Polly, who shrugs, so he nods.
“Sure, kiddo.” Dagwood pumps his fist in victory. “How about you, Junie-Bee?” Jughead asks, turning to look at her. “Any special requests?” Archie watches, smiling to himself, as she puts her finger on her chin and screws her face up in concentration.
“Bananas,” she declares after a moment.
“Can do,” Jughead says, wiping his hands on his apron (a bright floral; Archie isn’t sure who bought it, but his money’s on Polly, who seems to be enjoying it more than anyone else, himself included) and getting to work.
“Can’t remember the last time I saw this place this crowded,” Jughead says, sprinkling chocolate chips into the frying circle of batter. Archie can—it was the day of his dad’s funeral, but he isn’t gonna mention that in case it makes Jughead shut up the way he does sometimes, when he’s worried he’s hurt Archie’s feelings but too stubborn or wary to ask. Archie just wants to bask in the moment right now, the bustle of mismatched chairs scraping against the floor and people scooting past each other, Juniper and Dagwood bickering over the grossness or lack thereof of banana texture, Betty tightening her ponytail. They’d put the leaf in the table this morning.
He’s always dreamt about a big family.
“Hey,” Reggie says after Jughead’s served the kids and himself and joined them at the table. He nudges Archie’s shoulder with his own. “Where’s your phone? Let me take y’all’s picture.”
“I’ll pass,” Jughead says, shoving a forkful of pancake and sausage in his mouth. “Not really a photo album fan.”
“You are today,” Reggie says, standing and swiping to the camera app. They exchange a series of complicated glances that include Reggie jerking his chin in Archie’s direction and Jughead paling despite his flush from the stovetop.
“Fine,” he grumbles, and adopts a pleasantly neutral expression while the rest of them produce tired smiles and the kids give toothy grins.
“I think that’s framing material,” Reggie says, clapping him on the shoulder, when he hands Archie his phone back. Archie looks down at it, throat tight. He’s right.