Chapter Text
Fred’s in the kitchen making himself some tomato soup when the doorbell rings. It’s the first day of Winter Break, Archie’s at Veronica’s—having dinner with Hiram, he remembers with a shudder—and the house is quiet and still. Fred knows immediately who it must be.
When he swings open the door, his suspicions are confirmed: Jughead Jones stands on his porch, his face pink from the cold, an overstuffed backpack slung across one shoulder. Fred’s always happy to see him, but a second glance makes his heart sink; he looks just as small and helpless as he did a year ago, standing up on his doorstep with that same bag, that same guardedly hopeful look on his face. The only difference is the sleek leather jacket replacing his typical fluffy sherpa coat.
That, and the kid’s eyes are tinged pink, like he’s been crying. There’s snow on his shoulders and beanie. And he looks like he’s aged a million years.
“Hey, Mr. Andrews.”
“Hey, Jug. Archie isn’t here.”
“I know. Um…” He looks sheepish, miserable. He won’t meet Fred’s eyes. “I actually wanted to talk to you. If that’s okay.”
That makes his heart ache suddenly, for this boy who’s as much his son as Archie is. Fred has to swallow down his nostalgia for when these kids were little, and carefree, and never hesitated to come hang out with him and sit on his lap and demand stories. Where have all the years gone? It couldn’t have been that long ago, and yet now Jughead’s grown nearly to Fred’s height, all gangly and grown-up and serious. When did he get so tall?
At least Archie’s held onto some of his innocence, Fred thinks, then immediately feels terrible about it. The poor boy in front of him looks like he’s a second away from bolting.
“Of course that’s okay, kid. Come on in.” Fred steps aside to let him in, and the boy stomps his boots a few times to get rid of the snow. “You can take off your boots,” he offers, and Jughead complies.
Fred knows the boy—has known him his whole life, since before he was born, even—and if there’s one thing that can get Jughead to lay his guard down, it’s a warm meal. He leads him to the kitchen, where the soup’s waiting for him on the stove.
“You hungry? Got some tomato soup. I can make you a grilled cheese.”
“I’m always hungry,” Jughead replies, and the familiarity of the statement puts Fred at ease. While the boy sits at the kitchen table, petting Vegas, he toasts up a sandwich, ladles out some soup for them both. The record he put on earlier is still playing softly in the background, and he hums along while he cooks. Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light…
When he joins Jug at the table, the kid inhales the sandwich like he hasn’t eaten in days, and probably would do the same thing to the soup if it weren’t literally just boiling. Fred watches him eat, sipping carefully on his dinner. He likes watching Jughead eat; likes knowing he’s being fed.
He wasn’t always, growing up.
“What’s going on, Jug?” Fred finally asks. The boy slows, picks at a loose thread on the tablecloth. He’s quiet for a long moment.
“Can I… Can I crash here tonight?”
“Of course,” says Fred easily, “You know you can stay here anytime. But why aren’t you at your dad’s?” The kid doesn’t respond, avoids eye intact. Fred presses again, “Is everything okay at home? With FP?”
Jughead bites his lip, seemingly hesitant to share. Eventually, though, he admits, “It’s been… weird.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I just…” He trails off.
“Is he okay? Staying on the wagon and all?” Jughead snorts at that.
“Mr. A, if my dad actually went sober, I think it would kick off Armageddon.” His face grows grave suddenly, the humor leaching away. “No, he’s—he’s still drinking. Still with the Serpents.”
Fred sighs; he figured as much. “I’m sorry, Jug.” The boy shrugs.
“It’s whatever. I didn’t expect AA to last, anyway.” After a contemplative silence during which he sips at his soup, Jughead adds, “We got into a fight today.”
“Yeah? You… okay?”
“I’m fine. It was stupid. I…” When he looks up at Fred, his blue eyes are pale and cold in the dimly lit kitchen, and he looks so, so tired that it breaks his heart. He has to physically stop himself from reaching across the table to give him a hug.
“I messed up, Mr. Andrews,” he confesses, sounding small, “I thought—I wanted to help my dad, so I went to someone for a favor, but… She tricked me. And now my dad’s back with the Serpents so he can take on my debt to her, and… And it’s all a mess.” He buries his face in his hands, grasping at the locks of wavy hair that have flopped out from under his hat.
“Hey, you were trying to do the right thing,” Fred soothes, “It’s not your fault.”
“But it is my fault,” he insists, “The Snake Charmer forced my dad into all this trouble that he didn’t sign up for and now he won’t even let me help fix it.”
“Do I want to know what in the world a Snake Charmer is?”
Jug looks up at him, exhausted. “No. No, it’s best if you don’t.”
Fred feels incredibly helpless, looking at this boy that’s practically been in Archie’s pocket since they were born. He swears the last time they had a good talk, just the two of them, Jughead was ten years old and making some snarky comment about whatever comic book he’d last read, gap-toothed and grinning and now—
Now all of a sudden he’s in a gang. He wears leathers, rides a motorbike. Carries around a switchblade, for crying out loud, and Fred can’t even be mad at him for it because he lives in a part of town and associates with the sorts of people that make it necessary to carry protection. Still, the knowledge makes him sick with grief. What Fred would give for Jughead to have even just a fraction of Archie’s innocence, some of his protection...
“I… tried to fix it,” Jughead says, hesitant, not meeting his eyes again. “Some of the younger Serpents and I, we… We found her. Drove her out of Riverdale.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Fred asks, “Now she’s gone, and your dad’s out of trouble.”
“I guess.”
“... Something about it’s still bothering you.” Jug sighs, rubs at one eye with his knuckles, the move incredibly reminiscent of a little Jughead, coming downstairs the morning after a sleepover with bedhead and drool tracks on his chin. Fred can’t resist stopping him from damaging his corneas with a hand on his wrist, but stops when Jughead flinches at the touch. His hand recoils as though scalded. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I just… The problem’s solved now, but… What we did to make her go away and stay away… What I did…” He meets Fred’s gaze again, his eyes huge and wet and haunted. “Mr. Andrews, it scares me.”
Fred’s heart, if possible, sinks even lower. He knows this path. He’s seen FP disappear around its bend. It’s a dark, dark road, and the last thing he wants is for this kid to follow him.
“I’m sure you did the right thing,” Fred says carefully, “What you and the Serpents are dealing with… It’ll get hard to figure out, from where you’re standing, what the ‘right thing’ is. But you’ve got to try. Always. You’ve got to try. You have to stay true to who you are, Jug.”
“I’m a Serpent,” the boy says, desperately.
“You’re a good kid. You’re kind even though you act like you’re not, and quick as a whip, and creative as all get-out. You’re Jughead Jones.” Fred wags a finger at him. “Don’t you lose sight of that, son.”
Jug looks for a moment like he’s about to cry; his face goes all tight and drawn, and the corners of his mouth turn dramatically downwards, and his throat starts to work hard, like he’s swallowing back tears. Fred’s halfway to apologizing, certain he said something wrong, before Jughead’s expression goes carefully blank, the emotion forcibly purged. That scares him more than anything. Jughead Jones has never, as long as Fred’s known him, been able to hide his emotions from him. Kid thinks he’s all mysterious, but he wears his heart on his sleeve. He’ll keep his troubles and his secrets close to his chest, but he’s never been able to pretend so easily, slipping from mask to mask like a snake shedding its skin.
The metaphor is sobering.
“Why are you here, Jug?” Fred asks, apropos of nothing. He doesn’t want to scare the boy away, but they can’t ignore the overstuffed backpack forever. Jughead doesn’t reply for a long moment.
“My dad… kind of kicked me out,” he finally admits.
“What?!”
“I mean, not really,” he says hastily, which doesn’t clarify anything in the slightest, “He just—he was mad at me for trying to help with the Serpents. And he said—” His voice goes bitter. “He said that this wasn’t going to work out anymore. Us living together.”
“That’s—!”
“Which is fine!” Jughead proclaims loudly, cutting off Fred’s indignant outcry, “Maybe he’s right. It was a bad idea, anyway, me going back. And I’ll figure it out, Mr. A, I always do. It’s just that—” His determined frown falters then, and he looks like a little boy again. “It’s cold out. And I have nowhere else to go.”
And if that doesn’t damn near break Fred’s heart.
“Jug, I’m more than happy to have you move back in.”
“I can’t ask that of you.”
“You’re family, kiddo. Of course you can.”
“No, I can’t,” Jughead stresses, “It’s different now.”
Fred supposes that’s true. He wants to fight back anyway, wants to insist that no, nothing has changed! but he can’t lie to himself. Jughead’s a gangster now, for Christ's sake. Fred would happily let him move back in, but he won’t allow any Serpent business in his house. Not around his son. He guesses that might be a sticking point.
“But you’ll stay tonight?” he asks desperately, “Until you find somewhere else, or work things out with FP?”
“… If that’s alright with you.” Fred smiles.
“Kid, of course it’s alright with me. Come on, now. Want some hot chocolate? We can put on a movie or something until Archie gets back.”
Jughead’s face splits into a lopsided grin then, all unbridled, childish joy, and he’s so young and so sweet and so like the kid he used to know and Fred thinks oh, there you are, kid.
I’ve missed you.