Chapter Text
Jughead sat at the table in his father’s house, the house which used to be his too, until his father was so drunk he was driven out and forced to go couch-surfing. He could’ve gone to stay with Archie, but he wanted to give his father a chance. A chance to start being sober. And he would help his father through it.
He left his father in the living room after cleaning up and keeping all the wine bottles in the small box he had. His father seemed tired, so he let him rest in front of the television, while he went back to the room to rest and continue his novel about Jason Blossom’s murder.
He rummaged through his bag, and figured he left his computer at Archie’s house. Archie’s house was quite the drive away from where he was currently, so he picked up the notebook and started writing. He wrote about all the information he had gathered, from Polly, and then went on about whatever Archie had heard Penelope and Clifford Blossom say at Thornhill Mansion when he attended the maple tree tapping ceremony.
As he wrote, he heard the sound of glass bottles clanging against one another, and some shattering as they fell onto the ground. Hadn’t he cleared all the bottles and kept them into the box in the attic? He stepped out of the room and saw his father, eyes wild and manic, as if staring into his very soul.
“Dad? What’s wrong?” Jughead asked, stepping closer to the living room, taking in the mess of empty bottles and spilled alcohol on the ground.
“You… You hid my wine bottles!” FP growled, stepping closer to him. His words were laced with bitterness, but Jughead could hear the frustration underneath. The frustration of a man who had lost everything and blamed everyone else but himself. “I told you to put them on the table and instead you…”
“You were drunk, dad. You need to go sober, or else you’ll hurt your body-”
FP pushed himself up from the chair, unsteady on his feet. Jughead's pulse quickened. "You think you're better than me? Huh, boy?" FP's voice rose, filled with anger he didn't know how to control. "Living under my roof, eating my food, and you can't even help your old man!"
Jughead flinched as FP came closer, the stench of alcohol thick between them. His father’s face was red, his eyes bloodshot, and his fists clenched. Jughead had been through this before, the nights when FP's drinking took him to dark places, but it never got easier. Each time felt like the first.
“I’m trying to help you!” Jughead shot back, his voice rising now, frustration spilling over. He had been carrying this weight for so long, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. “You’re destroying yourself! And I—”
Before Jughead could finish, FP crossed the room in two quick strides, grabbing him by the front of his jacket and slamming him against the wall. The impact knocked the breath out of Jughead, his head smacking against the plaster with a dull thud. He winced but didn’t fight back. He just stared at his father, meeting his gaze with a mix of fear and defiance.
“You don’t get to decide what I do,” FP snarled, his face inches from Jughead’s. The stench of alcohol was overwhelming. “You think you’re the parent now? Hiding things from me? You’re nothing but a kid.”
Jughead’s heart raced, but he held his ground, his voice low and steady. “I’m more of a parent than you’ve ever been.”
FP’s eyes darkened at Jughead’s words, his face twisting in a mix of fury and pain. Without warning, he lashed out, his fist connecting with Jughead’s stomach. The force of the punch sent Jughead stumbling backward, crashing into the wall behind him. A sharp pain exploded across his torso, but he barely had time to react before FP was on him again, shoving him up against the wall, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol.
“You think you can talk to me like that?” FP’s voice was ragged, full of anger and resentment. “After everything I’ve done for you? After everything I’ve lost?”
Jughead gasped for air, his vision blurring from the impact, but he forced himself to stay conscious, to stay present. His father’s hands were rough, gripping his jacket with the kind of strength Jughead had forgotten FP still had. He was a Serpent, after all.
“I’ve tried, Dad,” Jughead choked out, wincing as his jaw throbbed. “I’ve tried to help you, but you—”
FP slammed him back against the wall again, cutting him off, his voice now trembling with barely controlled rage. “Help me? Help me? You don’t know the first thing about me, Jughead. You don’t know what it’s like to be in my shoes.”
“I know enough,” Jughead spat, his voice weak but defiant. “I know you’re drowning yourself in that bottle every day. I know you’re driving us both into the ground.”
FP’s grip tightened, and for a moment, Jughead thought he would hit him again. The tension hung thick in the air, the silence suffocating. Jughead’s heart pounded in his chest, but he refused to look away, meeting FP’s wild, bloodshot eyes with his own cold defiance.
Suddenly, FP’s grip loosened, and he shoved Jughead away, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Jughead winced as he landed hard, his body aching from the impact, but he forced himself up onto his elbows, breathing heavily.
FP’s eyes were wild as he stepped toward Jughead again, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. Jughead’s heart raced, his body tensing as he backed away instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. He was trapped, the walls of their small home closing in on him. His father was a force he couldn’t escape.
“You think you’re tough, don’t you?” FP spat, his voice slurred with anger and alcohol. “You think you can talk to me like that and just walk away?”
Jughead didn’t respond, didn’t dare say a word. He knew anything he said would only make it worse, and would only add fuel to the fire. But FP’s rage wasn’t something he could escape, no matter how silent he stayed. In the split second it took for Jughead to blink, FP’s hand lashed out again, this time connecting with his shoulder, hard. Jughead staggered back, gasping as pain shot down his arm.
“You think I don’t notice what you’re doing?” FP continued, his voice shaking as he closed in on Jughead, each step more dangerous than the last. “Hiding my bottles? Acting like you know better than me? You’re just a kid, Jughead. You don’t know anything.”
FP’s fist came down again, this time slamming into Jughead’s upper arm, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his body. Jughead gritted his teeth, trying not to cry out, trying not to show how much it hurt. But it hurt. His arm was already throbbing, the bruises forming beneath the skin before his eyes. He could feel the swelling, the heat rising from where FP had struck him.
“You don’t get to control me!” FP shouted, hitting him again, this time lower, across his forearm. Jughead instinctively raised his arms to protect himself, but it didn’t stop the blows. His father kept coming, the strikes landing harder, more furious, each one making Jughead’s body tremble with pain.
Jughead’s arms were burning now, every inch of them bruised and aching. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, but he blinked them back, refusing to let FP see him break. His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to shield himself, but it was useless. FP’s fists kept coming, relentless and unforgiving.
“Stop…” Jughead’s voice cracked, barely a whisper as he flinched from another hit. “Dad…Please, stop…”
But FP didn’t stop. He grabbed Jughead by the arm, wrenching him forward and slamming him against the wall again. Jughead cried out this time, the pain too much to hold back. His arms hung limply at his sides, the bruises already forming deep purple and blue patches on his pale skin.
FP’s grip tightened on Jughead’s arm, his dirty fingers digging into the fresh bruises and cuts, making Jughead wince and grit his teeth against the wave of agony. His vision blurred, his body shaking with the effort to stay standing. He couldn’t take much more of this.
“You think you’re smarter than me? You think you can fix me?” FP hissed, his breath hot and sour against Jughead’s face. “You’re nothing, Jughead. Nothing.”
The words stung almost as much as the blows. Jughead felt like he was drowning, like the weight of his father’s words and fists were crushing him from the inside out. His whole body ached, his arms burning from the constant hits. He could barely stand.
FP shoved him one last time, and Jughead collapsed onto the floor, his arms useless, the pain too much to bear. He curled up, pulling his knees to his chest, his bruised arms cradling his head as he tried to block out the world, block out FP’s voice, his fists, the pain.
For a moment, FP stood over him, breathing heavily, his fists still clenched, his body shaking with rage. But then, as quickly as the storm had begun, FP backed away, stumbling toward the door. Jughead heard the front door creak open, then slam shut, leaving him alone in the suffocating silence of the house.
The bruises throbbed, each one a reminder of how far things had spiraled out of control. His father’s words echoed in his head, cruel and cutting, searing deeper than the physical pain. He could feel the open wounds throb, but there was nothing he could do about them. In this house, there was no first aid kit, or bandages.
Slowly, Jughead forced himself to sit up, wincing as his arms protested with every movement. He looked down at them, at the angry marks already forming—purple splotches spreading across his skin like poison.
Jughead's body trembled as he forced himself to move, the pain radiating from his bruised arms with every slight motion. His limbs felt heavy, useless, but he couldn’t stay on the floor any longer. Slowly, he shifted onto his hands and knees. Every bruise, every hit, burned into his skin like fire, but he pushed through it, dragging himself forward inch by inch.
The floor was cold beneath him, the distance to his bed seeming impossibly far, but Jughead focused on it, his one goal. His breaths were shallow, ragged, and each crawl sent a jolt of pain through his body. His arms shook violently beneath him, threatening to give out with every movement, but he clenched his jaw, pushing forward.
He could still hear his father’s voice echoing in his head, sharp and venomous, cutting through the silence of the room. You’re nothing, Jughead. Nothing.
He winced at the memory, his fingers digging into the floor as he struggled to keep going. Finally, after what felt like hours, he reached the edge of his bed. Jughead gripped the sheets, using what little strength he had left to pull himself up. His arms trembled, his bruises burning beneath his skin as he heaved himself onto the mattress.
With a weak groan, Jughead collapsed onto the bed, his face buried in the pillow. His arms felt like dead weight, the bruises now fully formed, throbbing with every beat of his heart. He curled up on his side, cradling his aching arms against his chest, his body shaking with exhaustion and pain. His tears soaked into the pillow, as he slept. He could feel the infection forming as the dirt and grime of the house seeped into his open wounds. Maybe he should’ve stayed at Archie’s.