#but yeah rest assured there's still a lot to unravel in regards to what happened to jacob... >>

[violetnemerald]

You Don’t Know Me: Chapter 1

Gotham has always been known for its underworld. The underworld operated with great success thanks to the rich who put up the facade that Gotham was a great place to live and not one where crime families ruled. No crime family was more feared than the Wayne’s. Damian Wayne was the heir to the family business, destined to take over after his father.

Damian sat at the bar against the wishes of his guards. At the bar he was exposed, stripped of protection, which was exactly how he liked it. If he was going to be making a business deal he liked to give the other party a sense of vulnerability. With this many make the mistake of becoming vulnerable themselves which could in the end be used to exploit them and ultimately getting what he intended. On this particular day Damian was tasked with renegotiating terms with Trigon about his little drug operations. Trigon had invented and sold a little drug he liked to call Sin. Sin plagued many of Gotham citizens, both wealthy and poor, with addiction. Trigon had made the most demanded drug to ever hit the streets of Gotham City. While both Bruce and Trigon got along the tensions were still high. The meeting today was in regards to solving said tensions, or at least making them a little less suffocating.

Damian glanced around the restaurant taking notes of where his guards had situated themselves. As much as he wanted his freedom he always had to earn it through deception and distraction. His father prefered him with a guard in case any rivals attempted to take out the heir. Damian, having been trained to be an assassin by his mother, wished someone would try so he could finally prove himself to not need the surveillance.

Damian glanced down at the golden liquid swirling around his cup. He had been waiting long enough to be a glass and half in. The sound of a wooden door caught his attention causing him to turn his head towards the front of the restaurant.

Through the door two men walk in, following behind them is a woman hidden by their tall stature. From what he could see of her she was looking down focusing on what he assumes is something in her hands. Damian’s gaze lingers noting a faint familiarity to the way the woman presents herself. Turning his attention away he pulls out his phone taking a quick glance at the time. Six thirty- four great. I’m willing to give this guy six more minutes before I walk out that doo-

“Mr. Wayne.” a delicate voice interupts from beside him. A girl, interesting tactic Trigon, Damian thought as he moved to face the source of the voice. With every inch his eyes move up the more familiar it feels, until his emerald eyes meet her slightly violet eyes. Shocked was an understatement for how he feels in this moment. Damian hadn’t been expecting Trigon himself however he certainly did not expect the girl he’d been sleeping with for weeks to walk through that door. He shifts in his seat before composing himself. There are too many people around, too many witnesses, to reveal this girl as his weakness.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” Her eyes full of panic as she herself attempts to understand the situation. Damian could not blame her. When they met he didn’t share his real name in fear she would’ve run away. He sees now that that was not the case. The innocent girl he knew as Rachel was just as much wrapped up in the ways of the Gotham underworld as he was. Taking control of the situation Damian gets up offering out his hand.

“No you have the right person. Damian Wayne.” He says sternly while looking at her hoping she would catch the “go along” tone.

“Uhh yeah… Raven.” She stretches out her hand to meet his. Her hand molds to his, the touch sending a wave of warmth through his torso, ultimately allowing thoughts of their previous encounter to rush in. She did so many things to him, including completely disarming him with the brush of her fingers. Pale fingers slowly remove themselves from his grasp, savoring every inch of contact before falling to her side. Raven lowers herself into the chair right next to him, stiff, unwilling to move in fear that one miscalculated action could lead to her life unraveling.

“I did not realize Trigon had a daughter. But I can see why he would keep a beautiful woman a secret. You are a secret weapon to him. ” Rosey lips turn upward, in addition a slight eye roll as Damian’s playful remark falls on Raven’s ears. Just as quickly the tension blew in the door it fades with that bright smile of hers. “Unfortunately it’s going to take a lot more than a pretty face to disarm me.”

“Whose says my purpose is to disarm you. I’m here because my father trusts me, and will be leaving me in charge if something were to happen to him.” She retaliates, as she pulls out a series of files her dad gave to her as she left. Placing the manilla folder on the bar top in front of them. An empty glass and a napkin, which she was sure was for her, pushed away to make room for more important matters.

“I’m sure you get whatever you want. Don’t you Rae?” The last word slipping out, as it was habit. Despite how natural it flowed from his mouth it was not lost on him, nor her, the mistake he just made.  

The panic returns this time, mixing with threat. It was a dangerous game they were playing, and with so many spectators someone was bound to pick up on something. “Can I call you Rae?” He continues, playing off his slip up as charm.

Raven makes no comment. Sometimes the best response was no response. Instead she chooses to keep a stern face and look down and shuffle through the papers on the bar in front of them. Pulling out a list of demands made by her father and placing it on top of the array of sheets. Raven glances at Damian through the corners of her eyes. He studys the various documents put in front of him, eyes flicking from paper to paper. His face remains still, no indication that anything on the papers surprises him or even spikes an interest. His hand extends to the glass near him bringing to his lips. The edge lingering on his lips before he tilts the glass and finishes the rest of its contents in one sip.

“These terms are ridiculous. I’m sorry but has your father been sampling his own product. He is insane to think that we would even consider these terms. Come back when you have realistic terms.” He stands up. The chair makes a noise as it scrapes across the floors. He buttons his suit and makes his approach to leave, but before he does he looks back at her. Once more their eyes meet and all the surroundings fading before coming right back into focus. No wrong moves.

“Also... what do you want? I know what your father wants but what do you want?” He questions with less anger in his tone before he turns to head out the door. Raven watches as half the people in the bar get up and follow the young man out the door.

_________________________________

Raven knocks once on the door, making herself known. When they had developed the one knock system she thought it was going to be just for her assurance, she now realizes that it is a two way street. They are more similar than she previously thought. Here she was thinking he would never understand why they had to meet in secret or who she really was, but in reality he was probably thinking the same things.

The door opens revealing him. A tan face interrupted by green orbs. A face that she was now looking at for the second time today. She quickly walks through the small opening brushing past him. The door slamming shut behind her. He turns a hunger in his eyes. Oh had she been looking forward to this meet all day, and it was only heightened by their unplanned meeting. All she wanted to do at the bar was have her way with him in the bathroom, but surroundings limited their interactions, which she was not all too happy about.

“I figured out what I want.” Her voice just above a whisper as she takes a step, closing the gap between them. Raven leans up her lips meeting his, desperate to feel his body against hers. With her close and without the watchful eyes of others Damian felt no shame in grabbing her hips and pulling it against him. His thumbs digging deep into her hip bones. Desperate and needy pale fingers tug at the bottom of his shirt. The two breaking long enough for him to slip the shirt over his head. As he takes off his shirt she takes off hers, taking advantage of the time apart as she didn’t want to waste anymore of their time together.

Dipping back down his lips find their way to her neck, her head rolling at the feeling. His path of kisses continues to her bra strap, stopping to look into her eyes. The only emotion she could see behind green barriers was lust.  

With one hand still holding her hips, Damian raised his other hand to the clasp of the bra. He took one side of the bra in between his index and middle finger. With his thumb he pushed on the fabric just past the clasp, the hooks unlatching from their holds. With the lack of tension, the bra straps fall down her arms. She allows the bra to fall to ground between them before bringing her hands back to his cheeks, pulling him towards the bed with her. The back of her knees meet the edge of the bed before she falls back onto the sheets, Damian following soon after.

____________________________________

“So your real name is Raven huh.” Damian looks at the woman as they both come down from their euphoric states.

“Yeah…” Raven can feel how rosy her cheeks are getting as she looks down letting her cover her face, hiding in shame. “I couldn’t exactly come out and say my real name. But you shouldn’t be saying anything, you did the same thing Damian Al Ghul.” Raven says mocking the last name he originally gave her.

Damian rolls over to get out of the bed, Raven catching a glimpse of the slight eye roll. If it was anyone else they would’ve interpreted his actions as anger or annoyance, but Raven knew better by now. He liked that she could give it right back to him, in more ways than one.

“So, shall we talk about the terms of your surrender?” His head turns to the side, just enough to see her face. His eyes shooting daggers at her.

“Fine no business with pleasure.” Raven concedes, knowing she hit a nerve. In the little time she knew him, and as much as she teased him, she had never seen him that angered by something she said. He fully turns to face her this time, any remnant of the anger gone, all that was left was his normal face, with a hint of sincerity.

“By the way, I was serious about that, Rae.”

“Serious about what?”

“Thinking about what you want. You have the power to change what you’d like, take advantage. Make sure you get what you want out of the deal. You can turn that so-called family business into whatever you want, without your father’s watchful eye. You are smart, and very powerful and make people fear messing with you.”

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Thank you so much for reading. I know this was sloppy and well, could use a lot more editing, but I wanted to get this up today. I may at a later date edit this but until then this is it and I will get started on the next part tomorrow. 

[diddlesanddoodles]

DUMPLING ch 52

The further into forest they traveled, the older and larger the trees seemed to become. The naked branches of the deciduous slowly became less prevalent as coniferous took over and their path grew all the more dark. The forest floor was a mingled blanket of dried leaves, pine cones, and pine needles. As a result, the sound of the giants’ footsteps was accented by the crunching of the debris below.

It was far too easy to remember the fear,confusion, and hurt Nenani felt the last time she found herself in a forest, and those same feelings readily bubbled up to the surface. Though, there was no dead dragon floating in a river. Her mother was not there, but back in Vhasshal. Even with the solid presence of both Farris and Keral, she could not calm the worming anxiety in her brain. Though she did not expect a dragon to appear and attack them, there was still the deep fear that something was amiss.

“What’s wrong, lil’un?”

Farris’s question caught her off guard, having been too engrossed in her own thoughts to realize that her nervousness might have been perceptible. She had taken to watching the path behind them as Farris and Keral maneuvered through the trees, but when Farris broke the silence with his question, she gave a start.

“Nothing,” she answered, though the speed of her reply gave away the lie. “I’m fine.”

“Yer fidgetin’,” he pointed out, pinning her with a single expectant eye.

“…No I’m not,” Nenani protested, ducking down into the pack slightly. She did not want to try to explain her fears because she would first need to unravel them for herself, and in that moment she very much did not want to do that.

“Yes, ye are,” he pressed, and the same eye narrowed.

“This place is creepy,” she admitted, leaving all the rest unsaid. “I feel like we’re being watched.”

“Very well could be,” Keral commented. He was a pace or two ahead of Farris, having taken the lead, and pushed a branch out away from his face. The dry wood snapped in his hand and he tossed it away. “These woods are old. Older than the Blackwood certainly. Makes me think this might be Brennan’s estate. His family are big sportsmen. They love their hunting. Their ancestral home is supposed to be built on the last patch of ironwood left in all of Vhasshal. And I’d bet my left foot these are ironwoods.”

“What’s ironwood?” Haiyer asked, poking his head up from the folds of Keral’s pocket.

Keral looked down at the small face peeking up at him. “It’s a particular kind of tree. And since ye have a fairy friend, this might interest ye some. Thousands of years ago, all this land and most of the continent was ruled by elves.”

Jae rolled his eyes, propping his head in his hand and looking on in boredom. Keral either did not see or chose to ignore him and continued on with his story.

“Then there was some fightin’ between them and us big folk. Elves called us mountain men since we mostly lived up near the mountains in those days, but more and more we started moving into the valleys. The Elves didn’t like that and tried to drive us back. Skirmishes turned to battles and then to war.”

“There’s always a war in these old legends,” Jae muttered, picking at the bandage of his splinted arm that peeked out from his coat’s sleeve. “Why couldn’t they come up with something a little more original?”

Keral reached back over his shoulder, pressed his fingers onto the boy’s head and shoulders, and forced Jae back down into his pack. “Quiet. Yer interruptin’ my story.”

Jae popped back up, hair disheveled, and wore a fierce snarl, but was obediently silent as Keral continued.

“The elves allied themselves with the Fae,” Keral went on. “And the humans allied themselves with us. It weren’t just us that the Elves were pushin’ around. Humans got the short end of that particular stick too. So there was a war. Lasted a good hundred years they say. But somewhere along the line, someone got smart and began to plant ironwood saplings all across the land. Y’see, the Fae were the reason the Elves had the upper hand in the war. Without them, the Elves just didn’t have the numbers. But the thing with Fae creatures ye have to remember is that iron hurts ‘em.”

“Iron?” Nenani asked. “Why?”

“Just an old superstition,” Farris answered. “Though I suppose ye might be able to ask Ellis one day if it’s true.”

“And the Fae hate ironwood trees, because of the sap,” Keral said as he reached inside his coat and pulled a small knife from his belt. Stepping up to one of the larger trees, he sliced a long line across the bark. After only a few seconds, a thick dark red sap began to ooze from the wound. Keral wiped a finger across it, collecting the sap, and held his finger up with a grin. It was convincing enough that if Nenani had not seen him take the sap from the tree she would have believed it to be blood. He held the sap close so that Haiyer could get a good look. “Makes ‘em sick, ye see.”

The little boy reached out and poked his finger into the sticky glob. When he pulled it back out, a thin string of sap connected his finger and Keral’s. He waved his hand, trying to break the strand, but only managed to cover it in thin sticky tendrils. He stared at his hand in annoyance as though blaming it for the predicament.

“Well, ironwood trees take roughly a hundred years to mature,” Keral continued. “And suddenly the Fae weren’t as helpful in the war as before with so many of them all over the place. Couldn’t chop ‘em down fast enough. The tide turned in our favor and in the end we won. The elves sailed away across the sea to another continent and the land was divided between us and the humans.” He rapped his knuckles against the tree trunk. “Ironwood makes fer good for building lumber since it’s so sturdy. There ain’t a whole lot of ‘em around anymore, though. A good bit of the castle’s supports are ironwood.”

“All the wood in Warren’s office is made of it too,” Jae contributed, picking at his bandages again. He was playing with the idea of removing them completely. His arm didn’t hurt at all anymore, and between the weeks of healing and all the potions and tonics he had been forced to guzzle by both Maevis and Yaesha, he was more than confident his arm was finally mended. Enough to go without the splint, in any case.

From Keral’s pocket, Haiyer suddenly gagged and spat as he pulled a sap covered finger from his mouth. “Ugh–! Yuck!”

“Well don’t eat it!” the ranger exclaimed in exasperation. “Gods above, don’t go stickin’ weird shit in yer mouth ye lil’ git! Ye don’t know if it’s poisoned.”

Farris laughed and lightly slapped his brother’s shoulder. “It won’t hurt ‘em none. Ironwood sap ain’t poisonous. Just bitter as hell. Actually a useful antiseptic.”

“I know that, but I’m sure this one didn’t,” Keral shook his head as he regarded the little prince with a vexed eye. “Let that be a lesson to ye then. We keep our hands to ourselves and outta our mouths. Yeah?”

Haiyer nodded with a sullen expression, having been thoroughly rebuked. He stuck his tongue out and blew, as though it would help clear away the acrid taste. “Blegh.”

……………………………………….

Keral called for a rest and chose a clearing ringed by seven tall pine trees. Farris carefully slipped his pack off his shoulders, doing his best to not jostle Nenani too badly as he did so. Once she was on the ground, he placed the pack off to the side and sank down against the tree trunk, eyes closed. Though he had not complained at all during the day’s trek, Nenani could see the fatigue on his face. As though sensing her eyes on him, Farris opened one eye and quirked his eyebrow at her questioningly.

“Are you alright?” she asked, voice soft.

He waved a hand at her. “S’just what happens when ye get older. Ye get tired.”

“You’re not old,” she assured him, which earned her a thin smile from the giant.

“Tell that to my feet,” he replied and closed his eye again.

“Told ye to take my spare boots,” Keral berated mildly from the other side of the clearing where he was helping Haiyer down from his pocket. “Yer kitchen slippers aren’t meant fer hikin’ cross the wilderness.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with my boots,” Farris clapped back and then muttered under his breath in a salty grumble, “Hm. Kitchen slippers. Bah.”

A few steps away from Keral’s pack, Jae was stretching out his muscles. He bent himself in half to touch his naked toes and leaned one way and then the other to straighten out his back and sides. He pulled his leg up to stretch the calf, but when he placed it back onto the ground, he gave a sudden yelp when he stepped barefooted right onto a small pine cone.

Stifling a laugh, Keral began to rummage around in his pack, seeming to find whatever it was he was searching for. The ranger stood up, slipping something into his pocket, and then walked towards the edge of the clearing where he disappeared behind a cloister of trees. His voice called back at Jae jovially. “Careful there, lad. Lots ‘a pokey things out here.”

Jae glowered on after him. Keral was a far more convenient target for Jae’s irritation and all the more so for the fact that the ranger couldn’t see the rude gesture the boy threw in his direction.

Unlike Jae, Haiyer seemed perfectly fine with walking across the ground without any shoes, and the pine needles and leaves and cones did not seem to bother him one bit. Feeling just the slightest bit of jealousy, Jae went about clearing himself a spot on the ground. Once the debris had been carefully brushed away, Jae sat down with his blanket. He pulled his arms out from his coat and began to unravel the bandages of his splint. With his arm freed, he laid the messy ball of cloth and the two flat splints down beside him and slipped back into his coat. He wrapped himself back into his blanket and laid back onto the ground to stare up at the thick canopy above. The fading daylight was sparsely visible through the thicker branches of the evergreen’s needles and, if he squinted, he could almost believe he was looking up at the night’s sky full of stars.

Haiyer was ambling about and plucking up the stray pine cone or leaf, picking at it for a moment, and then discarding it once his interest had dissolved or been pulled on to the next object. Nenani followed Jae’s example and cleared herself a spot on the ground and took a seat. The day had maintained a steady chill, but as the light was beginning to fade she felt as though the warmth was beginning to fade in equal measure. Though, sitting nearer to Farris, she could feel the heat of his body, and with her wool dress and blanket, she was not cold save for face and nose. It was tolerable and did not bother her too much.

After a few minutes, Keral returned with several spindly branches tucked under his arm. “We’ll camp here tonight.”

“Thought we were just restin’,” Farris said, opening his eyes, and regarding his brother curiously. There was a slight edge to his tone, as though he suspected Keral might be pitying him and his sore feet.

“If it was just me, I’d be movin’ on,” he replied. “But with ye not being used to this and the little ones, I think it best we not push it. We’ll start a fire, have a bit of food and rest, then move on at first light.”

Having his suspicions confirmed, Farris snorted. “I ain’t a tenderfoot ye need to baby, Keral.”

“Be that as it may,” Keral replied, not rising to the taunt and in fact looking quite serious. “I don’t know these woods. Neither do ye. We have three children to keep alive and many more miles to cover before we’re anywhere familiar. So I’m playin’ it safe fer now.” His grim expression abruptly spun on its head and he grinned. “And besides, tenderfoot ye ain’t. But I’ll be bettin’ yer feet are tender enough.”

Farris grunted and rolled his shoulders. “Bah. Come off it.”

“I’ll get the fire goin’ and we’ll get some supper started,” Keral continued. Nenani perked up and, having spent most of the day trying to ignore her gnawing hunger, found the notion of food very appealing. Keral pulled out a sack from deep within his pack as well as a few parcels of waxed parchment. “Field rations ain’t anything like ye yer use to throwin’ together, but we’ll make do just fine.”

Mimicking his brother, Farris sat back up to rummage through his own pack. He pulled out a bundle of his own, wrapped in a dark blue tea towel, and sat it in his lap.

As he went about readying some kindling and wood for the fire, Keral eyed his brother curiously. 

“What’s that there?”

“Bread,” Farried answered. Nenani marveled at it, realizing she had been likely standing on it the entire day and had even slept on it, all the while never knowing it was just below her. Pulling a metal tin from his pack and giving it a once over with his eyes, Farris looked surprised but pleased. Setting it down beside him, he said, “Bit of pepper here.”

“Pepper,” Keral echoed in a flat, disbelieving voice. “Ye brought fuckin’ pepper?”

“And just what’s wrong with that?”

“Who the fuck packs pepper in an emergency?” Keral demanded.

“It was in my bag from a time before and I just grabbed it without emptyin’ it first,” Farris replied with only a slight hint of defensiveness. He realized perfectly how silly it may seem, but it was a welcome find for him as he knew the sort of field rations that rangers were provided with. They were condensed versions of the same ones doled out to soldiers on a march: salted meats, smoked fish, and a sack of potatoes. Simple and nutrient dense food to replenish the body after a day of physical exertion. Boring to Farris’s mind.

He worked with spices and bright bold flavors. The idea of eating plain potatoes without even a bit of salt or pepper was nearly insulting. Keral might find fault or humor in his supplies, but Farris was content with the happy accident and was pleased even further when he found another tin, bigger than the first.

“What other useless supplies have ye brought along? Come on, let’s have a look,” Keral said, his manner more jovial than incredulous now.

Farris popped the tin open. “Salt, rosemary, and…” he paused and held the tin closer to his nose. “Paprika.”

Keral rolled his eyes. “Yer lucky none of the lads are here. They’d have a good ol’ rouse with ye and yer damn spices.”

Farris sent his brother a challenging glare. “Yer lucky they ain’t here. I’d break each and everyone one ‘a their noses.”

Keral shrugged, relenting, and went about the task of getting a fire started.

Farris began to rise from his seat and said, “I’ll help ye get it goin’.”

“Don’t bother,” Keral replied. “I’ll handle the fire and then ye can handle makin’ the food. That way, if it’s shit, ye can’t blame me fer it.”

Farris glared at his brother, but relented the point with a shrug. “Suit yerself.”

Keral had not quite finished building the fire when Farris began to search the ground around  their clearing. At one point, he was lost from sight, but when he did return, he carried a wide flat rock that was slightly curved in the middle. Keral regarded his brother with a judgmental eye. “And just what do ye mean to do with that?”

“Cook on it, ye idiot,” Farris replied shortly. He placed the rock onto the ground near the fire pit, but took a few moments to clean it best he could with the hem of his coat. “I know how ye rangers cook yer food and ye might be fine with crunching on dirt and ash, but I ain’t.”

“Ye have yer spices,” Keral quipped with a grin. “And we have ours.”

Jae snorted a laugh. “Ranger’s famous dirt and ash potatoes. Yum.”

“Ah, a wee bit ‘a ash never hurt no one,” Keral replied, striking his flint and attempting to light the bundle of tinder.

“I can do that part,” Nenani offered, already rising to her feet. She stepped out from her blanket and walked closer to where Keral knelt. The ranger regarded her curiously for a moment before blinking in understanding.

“Ah,” he said. “Right. Yer a fire mage. Forgot about that fer a second.” He gestured to the firewood. “Have at it, lass.”

In moments, Nenani had the fire blazing, and Keral happily fed the rising flames more kindling until at last they had a proper campfire. Nenani returned to her blanket and nestled back down, basking in the additional light and warmth of the fire.

The flames crackled and moved within the stone ring. With the dying light, it cast elongated and strange shadows against the trees which Haiyer did not much care for. Jae had moved to sit closer to Nenani, but they were forced to make room when Haiyer pressed himself between them. They threw mildly irritated glances his way, but the boy was oblivious.. Now that he was suitably shielded from the scary shadows, he was content to watch the fire happily dancing.

As agreed, Keral released custody of the campfire to Farris as well as his field rations. The bag of potatoes was meant to last a single ranger a few days or up to a week if strict rationing was observed in addition to foraging or hunting. The addition of the salted pork and smoked fish meant that all together they could realistically make the supply last a few days. The children would not need nearly as much as their Vhasshalan guardians so their portions were not included into the calculations.

A fourth of the bread was cut from the loaf and the rest returned to Farris’s pack. Two handfuls of potatoes were placed onto the rock close to the fire where the flames would heat the rock and the potatoes, effectively roasting them. Once the food was cooked and adequately seasoned to Farris’s standards, each of the children had either one larger potato or two of the smaller ones, a sliver of salted pork or fish, and a piece of the bread. The giants shared the rest of the cooked potatoes and bread and a bit of smoked fish. The rest of the salted pork was returned to the pack.

The bread was a heartier dark rye and vastly different from the golden crusty loaves she was used to. It had a much stronger taste and rougher texture, but she was not going to complain. It went rather well with the smoked fish and she decided she rather liked it after all. The potatoes were speckled with salt and pepper and had a slight reddish tinge to them due to the addition of paprika. Haiyer’s mouth was stained red with it as the little boy munched happily on his food.

Nenani did feel a slight sting of guilt that she, Jae, and Haiyer were able to make a more bountiful dinner of the rations than either Farris or Keral, especially considering they were doing all of the walking. Jae seemed to have had a similar train of thought.

“You sure you guys shouldn’t have ours portions too?” he asked. “I mean, you are the ones carrying us around. You need it more then we do.”

“Lovely of ye to offer, lad,” Keral replied. “But it wouldn’t make any difference. Ye three don’t eat much at all. So eat up.”

“Besides,” Farris added. “There ain’t no chance in hell I’d let ye go hungry.”

Keral reached for the still hot rock and plucked up a few of the roasted and seasoned potatoes. He studied them with a critical eye, still seeming to find the addition of spices laughable. He popped them into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“Alright,” Keral relented after a moment. He nodded to his brother. “Alright.”

Farris grinned at his brother knowingly. “Alright what?”

“Ye were right,” he said, reaching for more. “The spices help.”

Farris regarded his brother with a self-satisfied smirk.

Keral glared. “What? Ye waitin’ fer a medal?”

Farris shook his head, still grinning smugly, and took a bite from his bread. “Just enjoyin’ the moment is all.”

“Fer fuck sakes, Farris. It’s just some spiced potatoes, ye didn’t cure leprosy.”

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Reference stock by @null-entity

[paperspell]

Kingdom Hearts || Three Half Promises

Rating: Teens and up

@mimiplaysgames and @lyssala helped me put a little more life in this chapter! In fact, they basically do that in nearly all the other chapters! But still, this is the part where I always say how awesome they are and how glad I am for them to assist me. And they are! And I am! Cheers! 

Summary: A character study of Aqua and Terra from childhood to adulthood

Chapter 5: The Master’s teachings | About the world’s orders

It’s Terra’s idea to stay at the secret garden post practice, a proposal he asks her about one morning after his invitation to that very spot. Spring brings forth clear skies and fair weather, enough that it would be shameful to stay cooped up in the castle rather than outside. Flowers are blooming in earnest, and there is a certain cheer that accompanies the growing warmth.

Aqua is apprehensive to say yes at first. She can still envision the glowing eyes amidst the darkness of the night, feel the dread that slithers into her senses from the unknown.

“It’ll be fine,” Terra says. “We’re not too far from the plains, and we can always go before sundown. Just follow me.”

He adds on how he needs help tending to various vegetables – rows of carrots, cabbages, leeks and peas – or so he says; Aqua finds out that very afternoon it’s not so much her help he desires, but rather, her company as he works. Keen to be friends, she agrees and helps him carry off books to study during the daylight. They go about silently in preparation for their next lesson (which has unfortunately hit a dull topic of theoretical changes brought by magic at a subatomic level) – at least until they cannot stand it anymore, prompting Aqua to read aloud from a big book of stories instead.

This particular tale is a grand one, about rogue pirates and the untold riches stowed in a far-off place, a famed planet buried with treasures. In no time at all, Aqua reaches the last page.

“…when he looks up, he sees the gleam of the stars, twinkling above like the very eyes of that rogue who took off in jubilant laughter…”

Terra yawns contently in response as Aqua closes the book. Having watered and fertilized the crops, he carefully puts aside his whittling work, and lays down, disappearing within the groves of pansies and yellow trilliums. She can’t blame him; today’s a very lazy day, the sun welcoming them to doze on the smooth, tepid grass.

The block of wood he’s been working away with is taking shape, but there are no discerning features about it yet. Aqua wants to ask, but she has a feeling that their friendship is still in its early, fragile stage. Much like a dandelion, she has to treat it with upmost care. She settles with pulling up another book she’s seen him reading last night, handing it over.

“Why are you giving it to me?” he asks.

“I thought we were taking turns.”

“Oh. Well…” A strange expression clouds Terra’s face. “Wouldn’t I be spoiling it for you?”

“I don’t mind,” Aqua says. She presses the novel to him once more.

Terra looks taken back at the book she hands to him. He passes it to and fro, as if he’s unsure of how to even open it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he affirms quickly. His left hand twitches as his finger glosses over the title of the book. “Anyway…”

Even as his opens the cover, flipping to the bookmark page, he makes no attempt to read the text aloud. Terra coughs before starting in a slow drawl.

"Erm, okay…the…the creepers of the grates were startled to find someone already there…”  

Aqua looks over his shoulders to read alongside him.

“Terra?” She frowns. “It’s says keeper of the gates.”

“Right,” Terra mumbles, before flushing red. He squints at the page again, hesitating a beat too long.

“Once the men saw that this stranger was no one else but the prince, they…ray-rep-”

“Rejoice,” Aqua says helpfully, then immediately wishes she hasn’t.

Terra stares hard at the words. Finding that she is right, he carefully reads the rest of the passage. Even though it isn’t particularly hard, Aqua could see the relief that passes over him – that is, until he fumbles another word. She doesn’t make another attempt to correct, but he pauses, knowing what he just spoke makes no sense with the context of it all. Terra shuts the book hastily, and Aqua fears that an invisible wall, one she thought they had overcome, is starting to thicken once more.

“You can laugh if you want,” he mumbles.

“Er,” she says, perhaps too quickly, “about what?”

Terra looks as if he bit into bitter melon.

“About the fact that I can’t read,” he begins hotly. “Read right, I mean. I can’t do it as well as you.

He begins to thrust the book back to her, but thinking better of it, sighs and places it in her hand a touch gentler than originally intended. Clearly, he doesn’t want to be the one to break the peace between them either, and it gives her hope – just a little.

“It’s okay. Plenty of kids in Radiant Garden mix up their words too,” she assures him. “It takes practice, that’s all.”

Terra nods slowly at this.

“I know. It’s just–” He sighs. “I can read by myself, most of the time. Not a lot, cause then I get headaches, but I really can read well when nobody’s, you know…listening.”  

His voice gives away to unexpected earnestness at the end, like he’s trying to convince her to believe him. Although Aqua does trust him on this, the way it comes out is so unlike the cool, unbothered boy who she knows that it startles her. All she can offer is a lame “sure,” which does little to reconcile him.

“I believe you,” she states in a hurry. “I won’t make fun of you for it, I promise.”

Terra stops fiddling with the grass.

“But you can, you know. Everybody else did anyway.”

Aqua edges closer at this. His voice has dropped so much it’s hard to catch what he’s saying.

“Who do you mean?”

Terra wets his lips, opening his mouth to give a proper explanation, but then clams it shut before turning away. A bell goes off in Aqua’s head – of course, Master Eraqus had mentioned, the falling of Terra’s home. Whoever he’s thinking about is most likely long gone. Her mouth goes dry, and she is racking her brains to say something to save the little pleasantness left.

“Nobody made fun of anybody in the orphanage for not reading well. Otherwise we’ll get in trouble. Besides, I don’t want to do that either way,” Aqua declares. “We’re friends, right?”

It feels a bit silly to declare something as simple as that, but at this point Aqua couldn’t be sure. They have stopped fighting, but the hesitation she senses before Terra confirms that yes, they are indeed friends, is enough to prove there’s still more work to be done on that. Trying not to dwell on this small unhappiness, she offers to read the book from the beginning, which cheers him up considerably – she unravels the story with poise and is clearly appreciative of all the right parts that when they get ready to retreat back to the castle, their spirits are as light as when they first start out.

“Thanks for…you know…” Terra says, rubbing the back of his neck. Keeping his promise, the sun is casting the last of its rays before dipping behind the mountains as they edge out of the meadow.

“S’okay,” she nods. “I’ve read to the younger kids before because the misses told me to – so I got a lot of practice out of it. If you want I can help you, um, read smoother.”

“Really?” Then, perhaps ashamed he sounds so eager, Terra clears his throat and walks quicker to the castle’s entrance.

“Really,” she says, catching up to him.

He slows down some before they reach the dining hall. Maybe he’s thinking of how to properly respond to this unexpected help, but being unable to fully express his gratitude, Terra is left giving her a sheepish grin.

“Same time tomorrow?”

Aqua doesn’t hesitate, and a definite “yeah” leaves her mouth before she even realizes.

Things become exceptionally better as friends. By the time they hang around the garden for the fifth time, the hours seem to chip away until dusk settles, and they continue their companionship well past what is expected.

In exchange for Aqua’s help reading, Terra suggests that they work together on techniques, during which he readily gives Aqua pointers on how to utilize the sides of her wooden sword better. She tries to copy his style of fighting, and quickly discovers she can’t match his strength. However, Terra does not scoff anymore, and makes genuine attempts to help her improve her sparring. With the sudden increase in productivity, there’s ample time to relax afterwards. They grow careless of their company, with midday chores made fun as they begin talking about everything, and yet nothing in particular. It slows down their progress of course, and sometimes Master Eraqus will give them a stern reminder to finish up their duties.    

Aqua knows the Master isn’t really mad; he’s probably more relieved they can find a friend in each other. Still, it doesn’t stop him from rebuking them when they grow lax on their lessons, and without the fiery competition they once had, Aqua notes how she and Terra face a different problem now – instead of quizzes and the like she’s known in Radiant Garden, Master Eraqus makes it a habit to test them by popping the occasional question, sometimes aimed directly at Terra and his glassy face.

This happens during one particular lesson, when they are moving on from the collective history of the Age of Fairytales to the wider range cultures of that could be found from world to world. As established hierarchies of multiple worlds are being explored, Aqua can’t help but feel sorry for Terra, as he blinks in alarm at the question.

“Yes Master?” he asks, snapping to.

Eraqus is not amused.

“I am asking you, Terra, exactly what importance a royal family – say from a place like Enchanted Dominion – serves in regard to the entrance of outsiders.”

“Er,” Terra intones, as Eraqus raises a questioning brow, “I-I don’t know, sir.”

Eraqus stares hard at Terra, enough so that even Aqua, who sits on the Master’s opposite side, rights herself to be as straight as an arrow. Once properly ensuring Terra’s attention, the Master proceeds to explain how the royal family bears the honor of knowing more than their subjects about the history and hearts of worlds, thus carry the responsibilities of enforcing the protection of their world’s order.

“If nothing else,” Eraqus says, “remember this – it is crucial that we serve not just as warriors of the Light, but as peacekeepers. We are free to tread on any world in existence, but they are not ours to claim over. When we enter each world, we are considered outsiders and must obey the rules of inhabitants.

“In fact, some worlds are not entirely welcoming of Keybearers. It may be due to caution, fear, or perhaps rash assumptions of us. They know the Keyblade holds power, but they also know the terrible dangers it beckons. Even in this era of peace, the remnants of what happened a century ago, and the splitting of the world is retold, maybe more accurately on some worlds than others.”

Aqua stops twiddling with the grass on her side. It has never occurred to her exactly how many rules there are in order to keep all the worlds safe. How to gauge, how to remain discreet, how go about getting an audience with those empower, and then, how to act when you finally do – the Master goes through it all.

Terra starts to drift off again, his expression slightly unfocused. Even she begins to feel the boring rigidness of Master Eraqus’ explanation about surveying from a distance, like learning the rules of the world before blending in and prodding exactly how much the inhabitants know. The lecture goes on without anything notable aside from further mentions of Enchanted Dominion, specifically about the unusual abundance of Light from the rumored princess who should be about Aqua’s age if the Master remembers correctly. By the time they are dismissed, the Master yanks Terra back to attention, and they are given one final tidbit of “if nothing else, remember this” about the dangers of a dark sorceress who lives in the shadows of that world.      

“It’s not fair though,” Terra muses during their retreat back to the garden. “How come it’s always me?”

Aqua bites down her smirk. Truthfully, between the two of them, she’s more prone to daydreaming during the lessons, so it’s crucial that she gives all the right cues on the right time. Judging the tone of Master Eraqus’ voice, his pauses and gestures, she either nods or give the occasional hum.

“You just got to pay more attention.”

“Says you,” he remarks. Terra, somehow catching exactly how bored she is during their lecture, has agreed to keep it secret, justifying it with “well, I think it’s pretty funny too.”

Although they both respect the Master a lot, nothing stops them from making fun of him every now and then. His hard-earned wisdom, not yet comprehensible, earns them fits of laughter when they study together, as they take every chance to parrot his trademark phrase.

“If nothing else,” Aqua says in her most queenly voice, “remember this.”

“Ha,” Terra snickers. “You sound just like him!”  

Encouraged by each other, they continue to share their outrageous impressions, each more exaggerated than the last. Chuckling at their cleverness, they stretch over their toppled books to pore over the thicket that leads deeper into the woods.

“Hey Terra, do you ever wonder what’s past those bushes over there?” Aqua points at the direction of the darkening, narrow road.

“More trees,” Terra retorts, grinning at her unamused face. “It’s true. Take a look.”

He gets up to his feet, beckoning her over.

They have to crawl under the small opening of the bushes, as they were too thick to push aside, and the surrounding trees grew too closely for them to walk around. The tunnel is small, but wide enough for them to go through without too much difficulty. When they reach the end, Aqua has to brush some loose leaves from her head.

“Took me a while to make the hole big enough,” Terra says, “but see?”

He points at one nearby, and Aqua can see a faint ‘T’ has been carved on its base. Terra takes the lead once more, and she follows him closely. The path they trend on is slight yet noticeable enough to mark it as well used. They pass by a couple of more trees with Terra’s markings, some with wild flowers for company. As they edge deeper, she can hear the growing roars of moving waters.

“Careful, we’re right above a cave,” Terra informs her as they step over damp ridges of stone. “I got a bad cut from here one time.”

Sure enough, peering from the hem of his shorts, she could see a white scar that trails to his calf. Aqua thinks she’s finally got an answer to what Terra does when the Master is away. While Master Eraqus has been exploring, Terra has been making his own discoveries right here, on this very corner of the world.     

“Wow,” she breathes out, once the waterfall comes to view. Even grander is the lake the water spills out to, with more mountains in the distance. “You didn’t say anything about this.”

“I haven’t really been past this point,” he says, shrugging. “There’s too much water. If we want to go further out, we have to find another road.”

The stillness of the lake made it so that the horizon where water and sky meet are indiscernible. They break this illusion by taking turns skipping rocks, Terra a touch proud when his rocks fly out further, at least until Aqua’s final stone skips past his mark.

As they make their way back to drier land, a rustle comes from the bush behind them. Aqua drops her stone in a jolt. The noise doesn’t bother Terra, and he doesn’t even notice her shrinking from behind him. Instead, he holds his arm out, as if greeting an old friend. A deer pops out, and with her, a young fawning. They also do not seem to be troubled by Terra’s presence, although they do seem apprehensive to Aqua’s.

“Why are you standing all the way over there for?” Terra asks, finally noticing her position. “Come say hello.”

“Er,” Aqua says, not moving an inch.

Terra laughs softly, and the sound tinkles in the air. “They don’t bite, I promise.”

Her foot snaps a stray branch as she steps forward. The deer rears back with her ears up, and her child follows suit. Terra has to hold out his hand and soothe them before Aqua could take another step.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

Terra takes her shaky hand and moves it, slowly and gently, towards the nose of the deer. The magnificent creature proceeds to sniff, until at last it gives a small tentative lick. Aqua breathes out in relief, her hand still hovering in the air.

“You can pet them now,” Terra says, smiling broadly.

She does. Their hair is coarser than she expects, and the fawn is both skittish and desperate for her attention. Aqua treats it much gentler until it proves it’s overcome their fears completely. She pets its head carefully, and is rewarded with a deliberate closing of it’s large innocuous eyes.

“I did it,” she sighs.

“Yep,” Terra says proudly. “Now they trust you.”

When both mother and child leave, Aqua’s hand is licked raw.

Terra and Aqua start their slow trek back to their meadow. On the way, he explains the troubles of having a garden out in the woods. He had to set traps and snares every so often to keep wild animals out, and one day without meaning to, his snare caught hold of a deer lurking nearby. With no resolve to dispose it, Terra freed it, and started making a fence to keep both prey and predators away. Ever since, he’s come across various other animals but makes sure to keep to his own territory.

“It’s amazing though,” Aqua says once they are back in the garden, “with all the things you find here. A whole place to yourself.”

“Yeah,” Terra nods. He looks at her. “You really think so?”

“You don’t?”

Terra gives a noncommittal hum. “It’s not that I don’t think it’s amazing, I do. But being here, all the time makes me, I don’t know…see things differently. I guess.”

“There’s still plenty of things we haven’t seen yet,” Aqua points out. “We haven’t been around the entire world.”  

Terra considers this, but only briefly.

“Remember when we were learning about the Great Keyblade War from a hundred years ago? The Master said that when Daybreak Town split and all its pieces were left to form a world of its own, this place itself is what’s left from the fountain where Master Ava told the dandelions to run.”

Aqua nods, finishing the memory. “That’s where all the Keyblade wielders gathered, and that’s why we have all this Light to protect us.”

Terra doesn’t seem to be satisfied with this. He looks over all their toppled books, reaching for the one titling Radiant Garden’s history.

“I like it here, but I can’t help thinking about the chances of me being anywhere else,” Terra says. “You’re really lucky, since Radiant Garden is huge.”

A strange, hungry look crosses his eyes, but when Aqua blinks it’s gone. What replaces it is a wistful expression. Carefully mulling over the right words, he utters quietly.  

“This world is just…too small.”  

A younger Terra, trampling around while Master Eraqus is gone crosses her mind. Training, reading, planting and getting hurt before picking himself back up again, alone.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “It’s only because we keep talking about worlds, and I haven’t been since Master Eraqus took me when I first came here.”

“You got to travel with the Master?” she inquires.

“Only once,” Terra admits. “It was a long time ago, when we were searching for someone, a friend of his, I think. The place we went to had lots of islands and grew star-shaped fruit. It was just that one time, and I don’t think it’ll be easy for the Master to take us both before we learn how to summon our Keyblade.”

“Have you tried?”

Terra blushes.

“Sometimes, I guess…I don’t know. It’s hasn’t come yet.” He looks away, hand on the nape of his neck.

Aqua has an inkling that sometimes may mean more than Terra suggests. She had spent countless hours grasping at thin air in the privacy of her bedroom. The thought that perhaps Terra did too gives her some comfort. Besides, the Master did mention that it takes some time to summon one, and it wasn’t so long ago that she came here. She tells him so.

“I’ve been here longer though,” Terra corrects flatly, “and nothing’s ever happened.”

Here she deflates a little. The same memory echoes Master Eraqus’ afterthought – it will still take some time – in some rare cases, even years – for a corporal Keyblade of one’s own to emerge…        

“I don’t get it,” Terra finally says. “the Master said I’m strong. I’ve tried, but no matter what, it won’t appear.”

“What about getting to know what’s close our hearts?” Aqua recalls. “Maybe we need to start there.”

Terra shakes his head and mumbles, “I know that my heart is strong. I just wonder if it’s strong enough.”

He goes quiet, holding his left hand with his right, gingerly studying something Aqua can’t see. She considers his contemplation, while also thinking back to how, not long ago, they competed time after time, just to best each other. Frustratingly so, she cannot say that Terra isn’t the most driven and unyielding person she knows.

“If it’s not already,” Aqua says, “it will be.”

Here in the grove, speckles of light colors Terra’s eyes in a golden hue. He seems puzzled by her declaration, but eventually accepts the support behind it. He gives a rueful smile.

“Thanks. One day when my heart’s strong enough,” he says, looking to the sky, “I’ll go out there and see everything. Just like the Master.”

The wind sweeps by them, shaking the trees and whipping their hair. When Aqua opens her eyes again, she finds Terra’s has returned to their startling blue. 

Every day since then, Terra and Aqua would edge just a bit further out around the lake, paving away a new path. They always have to stop before dark, so not much could be said about their progress on making it to the mountains on the other side. Regardless, they have fun hopping over stumps and walking over fallen logs. Terra insists they now carve ‘T & A’ over any noticeable landmark, and even hands her one of his special whittling knives to do so. Bolden by his sureness, Aqua begins to walk in stride with him. Once their day adventures are done, when night falls they take a trip to different worlds, with the help of books and the dim glow of a single lantern they share between each other.

Spring yields plenty of crops and sweet apricots, which Master Eraqus makes into pies once a week. Although both Terra and Aqua offer to help, neither has talent when it comes to cooking, and so under the Master’s orders they dutifully retreat to wash up while he cleans up the now very messy kitchen. As they walk down the halls to use the sink in the small bath, Terra flicks some flour at Aqua, and she retaliates by smearing apricot juice on his chin.

“You got it in my hair,” she grumbles, trying to swipe it clean.

“Yeah well,” Terra smirks, thumbing the juice and licking it away, “you should’ve gotten it on mine.”

And she would have too, if he didn’t back up so fast and started running down the hall. They collided by the foot of the door to the bathroom in fits of giggles as they struggled, Aqua trying to reach over him and Terra grasping at both her wrist.

“Stay – still–” she grunts, aiming for his parted bangs. Terra’s still physically stronger, but he looks surprised by her growth in strength.

“Okay,” he laughs. “Okay! You win! Lemme go.”

Cleaning up proves to be even more challenging as their fight does not subside. Terra flicks water at her, and she aims the sink’s faucet squarely to his face.

“Aqua!” he cries, but her name is garbled by the water, which spills out and dribbles down his chin.

“What?” she says, a bit too innocently. “You’re clean now.”

They step back out the hall, the closet-size infirmary right across from them. As Aqua turns to go, she does a double take when a glint from something at the far corner flashes her. Now that it’s daylight, she could see a reflective handle attached to an even smaller door that’s right next to them. Perhaps that night she took Terra to the medic room she was so fearful that she didn’t notice it before, but somehow that doesn’t seem to be the case. The door is narrow and pale, nearly blending with the wall.

“Terra, what’s that room over there?”

The boy pivots to track the direction of her pointing finger.

“Oh. That.” Terra stares uneasily at the door. “It’s an old room. I think it used to belong to someone, but Master Eraqus said they left a long time ago. It’s not important – we should head back.”

There’s something about it, and the way Terra is fidgeting, resolutely trying to steer them away that has her curious.

“Have you been inside?”

“Yeah, when I first got here,” Terra confesses, but then twitches his eyebrow in annoyance. “And come on, stop doing that.”

“Sorry,” she says. As much as she knows how Terra doesn’t like it when she reads him, sometimes she can’t help it. “I just want to check it out.”

“Aqua–” Terra starts, but she has already opened the door and slipped in. He follows with less enthusiasm.

The first thing that hits her is the smell – that of stale dryness, which effectively hovers over a second, less prominent odor. It’s musky yet sterile, kind of like a hospital room, purposely scented clean. Aqua wrinkles her nose.

Dust looms heavily in this place, even more so than the treasure room. A thin sliver of the evening’s dying light makes its way through the curtains, but only just.

Aqua can now tell exactly why Terra is so uncomfortable here – whereas the treasure room may be filled with discarded items of other people, rich with sentimentality and hopes from each individual, this bedroom gives no tragic imprint.

Instead, what is left behind brings up more questions than answers. Littered on the floor are loose pieces of crumple notes, pairs of thin rubber gloves, and alarmingly curious, a dull scalpel. Picking up and unraveling a note, she sees it’s a page detailing the human anatomy, specifically, the heart.

There’s a low ticking coming from a metronome on top of a shelf over the bed. Lined up against it were several hourglasses, in which each grain of sand within has already reached the bottom. Still, the metronome ticks away, marching along with time with or without its owner.

Certainly, someone has slept and used this room before, but Aqua can’t tell what sort of person they were – it’s as if they tried erasing their own presence completely.

“What is all this?” she whispers.

She traces the parchment of notes tacked up against the wall, the writing too frantic and faded for her to read. There is a bold circling on a certain key aspect. Who made it was so excited about what they discovered that their pen, tracing the circle over and over, has left a slight tear on the paper.

“I don’t know,” Terra replies. “Whoever was here really likes writing their own discoveries though. I think they might had been a Seeker – half of this stuff is about Kingdom Hearts.”

Eyeing the circled scribble, Aqua can make the words out now, and it does indeed say that. Terra edges himself away from a stack of books by the foot of the bed. When she turns to face him, a table with beakers and flasks, set right in the middle of the room, obscures her vision of him. With such an angle, she sees the whole of Terra’s body through the glass of a small test tube.

The tube, having been cleared from substance, isn’t exactly clean. She sees stains of inky blackness pooled at the bottom, from the same glass Terra seems to be encased in.

Touching the glass, she finds it’s as cold, if not colder, that the rest of the room. She feels a prickle on her neck, but when she turns around, the only thing she sees is the empty sockets of an intricate goat mask.

“Hey,” Terra’s reflection says, “let’s go.”

Aqua tilts her head up to see Terra beckoning her over.

She feels like how he looks – Terra’s back is aligned to the wall, as if he doesn’t want anything to sneak up from behind him. Although nobody else is in the room with them, Aqua can’t shake the feeling of being watched, and she’s becoming keenly aware of the now insistent ticking of the metronome, which might be growing louder with each swing unless her ears were deceiving her.    

Careful not to knock into anything, as well as show her hastiness, she joins him out in the hall. She clicks the door shut from behind her.

“That was…” she pauses, not sure what to say.

“…Interesting,” Terra finishes.

That wasn’t the word she would use to describe it. The room, in her opinion, is hauntingly mysterious. Someone was tinkering with something, wildly uncovering a secret only to take it with them when they left. Still, Terra isn’t wrong – the whole thing is interesting in its own way. Putting it in such an innocent perspective is impossible, however, and the rising goosebumps from their arms proves it.

Wordlessly, they both speed down the corridors trying their best to shake off this uneasiness without really showing it.

Back in the kitchen the pie is almost done baking. The sweet aroma wafts into their noses, and the Master welcomes them back to a pristine kitchen.

“You two certainly took your time,” the Master notes. He wipes his hand clean from the last of the mess.

“Sorry Master,” Aqua says. “We got distracted.”

“Oh?” Master Eraqus raises a brow. “If nothing else, remember to keep the mess at a minimum next time. I would appreciate both my helpers to aid more and wreck less havoc if they insist on assisting.”

Terra and Aqua dare not to even look at each other. She’s fairly certain that the cough that came from Terra is to hide his snicker. She had to bite down her lip to hold in her smile.

“Yes Master,” they both say.

Pulling out a chair, they three of them sit down to enjoy the rest of the evening’s ray and the sweetness of the apricot pie. Master Eraqus drinks his tea. Aqua talks about the candy she gets after dinner sometimes in Radiant Garden. Terra finishes his slice of pie, swiftly cutting himself a second piece just as Aqua is still on her first. The clinking of silverware swallows up whatever pauses in between.  

Here, the warmth of spring reaches them so strongly that Aqua forget the chills of the mysterious bedroom altogether.      

[onceuponamirror]

heart rise above

///// CHAPTER 13

summary: It wasn’t an experiment with freedom borne of some Americana fantasy; rather, a road trip of purely logistical intentions. The plan was simple. Drive from Boston to Chicago for his sister’s college graduation. That’s it.

Or, he drives a Ford Pickup Named Desire.

Mechanic!AU

fandom: riverdale ship: betty x jughead words: 75k chapters: 13/19

[read from the beginning] [read the latest]

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You're walking meadows in my mind Making waves across my time

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He realizes he has always been fascinated by bubbles.

He thinks most people probably went through a phase as kids where they liked them, enjoyed them, but for him, it was much heavier an interest—because the concept of a near-endless supply of anything was enough to appeal to the attention of the quiet little boy in threadbare sweaters.

In fact, one of his earliest memories is of just that thought. Sitting cross-legged in the itchy grass of the Andrews’ backyard, it was Archie’s birthday party, and even then, Jughead felt like an outsider and wondered why he’d been invited. Everyone else was playing on the Slip ‘N Slide and he’s always been afraid of water, so he’d sat off to the side in his oversized t-shirt, next to the babysitter on whom he’d later have his first crush.

She’d nudged him in the side and procured a bottle of bubble soap. Dipping a pink bubble wand inside, she’d pulled it up to her lips, and then her mouth formed a perfect o shape. He had inhaled, blinked, and then dozens of little circles of air and soap were blowing into the sun.

His mouth had too made an o shape, but accompanied by the softest o sound he’s probably ever made. He’d leaned back on his palms to tip his chin up to the sky and watch them float away in swaths. Running away was a notion he’d already become familiar with, but that’s not the feeling he got from watching the bubbles drift away, even as they left him there in the grass, growing smaller and smaller in their line of sight.

He knew, even then, that they were just something borrowed and being returned. Later, he would learn the color in a bubble was simple light refraction, but right then and there, it quick wink of time and magic, as he saw himself rainbowed in their reflection and felt briefly beyond.

One floated his way, and he broke it.

As he got older, and his habits got older too, he and Archie would test the limits of bubbles. He remembers getting stoned in the Andrews’ garage in a way they’d thought was the peak of stealth, passing a joint to Archie in one hand and the makeshift, tinfoil bubble wand in the other.

Jughead would try to smother his giggles while Archie took a healthy puff of the joint, suck it in for a moment, and then blow the smoke into the wand. A bubble would appear at the other end, filled with a tiny gray storm cloud. It’d hover above them, and with an itch he could never quite scratch, Jughead would always reach forward and pop it with his finger, littering them in soap and weed vapor.

“Jug,” Archie would groan, “why do you keep doing that? I wanna see how long it’ll last!”

He never did figure out why he couldn’t resist that urge to pop the bubbles. Perhaps it was just a preview of the personality trait labeled morbid curiosity that would come to define him. Or maybe it was the only slice of destruction he was allowed; the spoilsport in him, or the desire to end something before it ended by itself.

(By then, he’d already seen his share of ends, and this was the only lesson he’d learned.)

Later, older still, he’d learn a lot more about bubbles. About the science, the physics. It’d be a glow on his computer screen at three in the morning, hours deep into a black hole of Wikipedia articles, as he’d read about torpedoes and something called the violent collapse of bubbles that propelled them into devastation.

It’d been a strange moment, to realize something as innocent and as ethereal as the little bubbles blown into a backyard at a child’s birthday party could be darkened, turned inward, and used as weapons.

He’d write about them as literary devices too, in the last college class he’d ever take. He’d watch the words housing bubble fly across the eight o’clock news in his junior year of high school and wait for his father to find something new to blame.

And he thinks about them now, watching Betty Cooper helping her niece and nephew perfect their cartwheels in a backyard not at all unlike the place where his first memories live.

Because he’s written about them, romanticized them, intellectualized them, but he’s never actually felt like he’s lived inside a bubble before. Even in retrospect, having a full family unit until age fourteen didn’t feel like one because it was far too destructive to ever be lost in.

This is different. It feels almost too simple to describe what he’s feeling as happiness, but that’s what it is: a bubble of happy. He’s traced the dictionary up and down for something more profound than such a commodified word, but every time he comes up short.

It’s just happiness.

The way he feels like he can reach forward and tuck Betty up into his side without questioning it, or the way she’s already snuck him no less than three kisses this afternoon and the little smile on her face when she’d quietly thanked him for socializing with her family.

The way they haven’t talked about a damn thing regarding what’s between them, almost blindly, and clearly on purpose when he overhears her sister trying to bring it up. That’s the real mark of this kind of bubble, he supposes; the plausible deniability. But he’d laid her bare and she’d held him right back, and twice already, and he can barely stop thinking about when they’ll get to do it next.

Or, perhaps most of all, it’s the way when her nephew finds something in the back of the grass and he shows it to Betty, she leans down and whispers something in his ear while pointing at Jughead. And soon the little redheaded boy is scampering over to him, thrusting a tiny dandelion in his face and proudly exclaiming that he gets to make a wish.

He feels Betty’s eyes on him, and tries to remember how to talk to children. It’s been so long since his sister was this young, but she always is in his mind and it’s just like a bike. Jughead folds his arms playfully and tells him that he’d better think about it real hard first, better make sure he’s really visualizing what it is that he wants.

Arthur scrunches up his face until he says he’s thought his hardest, and then blows on the dandelion until almost all the seeds are picked up in the wind.

Jughead makes a wish too.

It’s a bubble, and he knows—he just knows—he’s going to pop it.

.

.

.

.

After second helpings (and thirds, for himself) and the kids start showing the telltale signs of exhaustion, everyone starts packing things up. Even the penny dreadful stock character named Cheryl helps out, clearing paper plates and deigning him with an actual smile when he takes them from her to throw away.

“What the hell did you say to her, you witch?” He mutters to Betty after it happens. They’re standing in the kitchen while the rest of her family is tidying up the backyard and he’s just grateful Cheryl’s gone, even if she was being nice to him, because it means he’s finally alone with Betty. “Pretty sure that’s a totally different person.”

She smirks and helps him scrape off food into the compost bin. “That’s between girls,” she says, clearly deliberately being vague.

“Again, otherwise known as witchcraft,” he murmurs against her ear, coming up behind her. There’s a terrible joke on the tip of his tongue about the spell she’s cast on him, but that’s a little too on the nose, even for him. Instead, he wraps his arms around her waist, because he’s going to take the first inch he can get, even if it’s in front of a garbage can.

She puts down the paper plate and twists in his arms. Her hands come around his neck, and he feels it again. Happy.

“You want to stay, after everyone leaves?” She asks, and god, every time she says that little word—stay—he swears it adds a year on his life.

“Yes,” he tells her, his fingers scattering where they’re strewn across her hip. “I need to go back to the motel and get a change of clothes and probably shower, but I’ll come right back.”

“I have a shower here,” she says softly, and with that same kind of teasing innocence she’d used on her sister, winking through the veil of the Virgin Mary.

He groans. “I see what you’re doing, for the record, and it’s practically Draconian. But I want to try to work a little tonight, and I need my laptop for that. So let me go peacefully into the sweet night, and I’ll be back before you know it. Plus,” he adds, his voice dropping, “I only grabbed a few things when I left.”

She seems to catch his meaning and that’s the trick, because she unravels herself from his grasp and returns to her cleanup duties. And then she looks up at him, with that now familiar and thrillingly pleased, secretive smile. “Juggie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just bring the box.”

.

.

.

They of course don’t go through a whole box of condoms, because neither of them is inhuman.

But—in their defense—they do make a decent stab at it.

That first night, he throws his things so rapidly into a bag that he barely registers what he’s bringing. It’s not until he gets back to Betty’s that he realizes he only brought the accidental System of A Down shirt that he solely still owns for the spare day he exercises.

He gripes when he pulls it out of his bag, but Betty promises them he won’t need clothes anyway, and, well, she ends up being right.

She rises annoyingly early for work on Monday morning, tells him to sleep and stay as long as he wants, and yes, she’s sure, her mother definitely won’t be home for days. Then asks if he’ll stay over again tonight, and tells him where they hide the spare key when he assures her that he absolutely wants to, and kisses him goodbye.

(They keep a key under the little concrete fairy a few feet away from the front door. It’s completely conspicuous, but he supposes an All-American town like Riverdale has never heard of a burglar.)

He rises a few hours later, still smelling her on his pillow, and takes his time wandering around the Cooper house to catalogue Betty’s childhood. He wouldn’t call it snooping, per se, but he might closely examine the books on her shelf—perhaps taking notes about what to recommend based on what she hasn’t got—or maybe admire her framed diploma from Columbia in the study, or he especially might possibly linger in front of her family photos and wonder what it would’ve been like to grow up with her.

Eventually, he decides to head back to his motel and grab an actually decent change of clothes, if nothing but to get some fresh air and hopefully some fresh perspective. However, if he thought leaving the first location of Norman Rockwell’s Home Improvement Show was going to help shake him from his euphoria of sex and post-sex, he was sorely mistaken.

Rather than stay in his motel and write while we waits for her to finish up work and summon him back, he decides to try something. It feels fluttering, even as an idea, but it’s something he’s always desperately wanted to experience, and he might not ever get the same chance again.

So he heads back to the Cooper house, retrieves the key from the little fairy, and lets himself back in. And then he sets up his computer on the dinner table, and works on his novel until he hears the lock turning.

He feels it then too, as she walks through the room, looking somehow more beautiful than when she left, and sees him sitting there; the little bubble of happiness expanding out of his chest and all across the kind of big house he’d never thought he’d sleep in.

“Honey, I’m home,” she says in a singsong voice as she drops her things onto the kitchen counter.

“Hello dear,” he plays back, “how was your day?”

It’s a game and they’re being wry and teasing, but it’s just what he was hoping for. It was why he came back when he did; he’s always wondered what it would feel like to be working from home and one day have a partner walk through the door and be happy to see him. He thinks it should be sad, that once again his greatest fantasy is nothing more than the simplest domesticity, but he’s so glad to see her that he doesn’t dwell on it.

“My day was good,” she says, in almost off-hand voice as she slides into his lap, one arm hooking around his shoulders and the other closing his laptop. And then she’s kissing him, and as is becoming habit with them, quickly grows to something more.

They have sex on the low kitchen counter that night, him standing between her legs and she’s her loudest yet, and he’s never once thought himself as insatiable in any way but regarding to food until now. After, having moved upstairs, he makes her come with his mouth and she returns the favor.

It’s almost too much to think about, how little they can keep their hands off one another. He’s fairly sure they’re both lost to the looming deadline and trying to get the most out of each other while they can through the guise of lust. 

He’s becoming increasingly aware that he is not ready to leave her.

He wants to tell her he’s not sure he can go back to life before her, thinks he has to tell her, but that would break the bubble and he desperately doesn’t want to. He decides he’ll do it, but not until he has to go. 

Instead, they make quesadillas at midnight in nothing but their underwear while the radio plays a tribute to The Best of the Seventies.

“Wow. Someone’s a major dork,” he tells her, grinning, watching her hips sway to along to some vague boogie-oogie, the spatula held up to her mouth as if it were a microphone.

Truthfully, this is a side of her he very much likes. He suspects she was a Taylor-Swift-Blasting-From-My-Bedroom type of teenage girl, and oddly enough, it’s not a turn-off for the person who stalked around high school with a pair of headphones and a Bright Eyes album.  

“Shut up,” she laughs, flipping a quesadilla, “or you won’t get any!”

“So I was looking through a drawer for a napkin, saw the aprons, didn’t see any that said Kiss the Chef. What have you got to say for yourself, Cooper?” he asks, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her stomach.

She giggles, and he’s half-sure he’s hallucinating it all but he’s not willing to blink.

Tuesday follows a familiar pattern; he goes for a long, solitary walk through town and then later makes sure to position himself as working away for when she comes home. The thrill he gets when they greet each other and talk about their days continues not to disappoint.

That night, however, they actually decide to have dinner at a normal hour, rather than immediately jumping one another, and eat while they debate whether the concept of the Great-American-Novel has to be inherently metafiction in order to be successful. The conversation actually turns him on a bit.

Afterwards, they cuddle up for a movie wherein more time is spent bantering through it than actually watching. She throws popcorn at his face and he kisses her when the music swells.

The eye of the bubble grows bigger in his chest.

.

.

.

On Wednesday, she originally wakes at 5:30, which by now he knows is her usual alarm to get to the garage by 7, but he still growls when he hears the humming little harpsichord ring tone she uses. “No,” he murmurs into her neck, once she shuts it off and tries to get out of bed. “Sleep.”

“Juggie,” she whispers, half-warningly. “The garage.”

“Open late,” he grunts, eyes still closed. He pulls her closer against him, and thinks perhaps once describing this moment as reverence for the peach of her skin wasn’t far off. “C’mon, girl boss. Sleep in for once.”

She sighs, like maybe she’s thinking about it. He opens one bleary eye to find her looking at him with exasperation, or maybe affection. But there’s something else there too, like a nervous, flittering thought. “You’re a bad influence,” she tells him, even as she settles back in against him, her forehead pressed into his chest, and exhaling gently. “Just one hour. That’s it.”

He drops a kiss at the top of her hair. “Yep, one hour.”

She doesn’t set another alarm.

.

.

.

Instead, they wake a couple hours later (a reasonable time for anyone to still consider morning, he thinks) because his phone has erupted in an uncharacteristic amount of text notifications. He makes a muffled sound, reaching over Betty to scrape around for his phone. And then he realizes that it’s not just his phone buzzing away, but hers as well. She seems to realize that at the same time and sits up, and together they check their messages.

“Veronica,” she sighs, at the same moment that he sees the litany of texts from an unknown number. Still, an invitation that feels more like a demand couldn’t have come from many people, and he probably would’ve guessed it was from Veronica anyway. He recognizes Archie’s number up at the top too and assumes that’s where the raven-haired princess got his contact information.

“Oh god, is it already after nine?” She mutters, looking at the clock on her phone. “I better text Joaquin and ask if he can work a few hours today. He’s usually got mornings free.”

While she does that, Jughead scrolls through the new messages, frowning. “She wants to throw a party tonight? It’s a Wednesday.”

Betty chuckles, clicking her phone off and rolling up against him. “You clearly don’t know Veronica very well yet,” she says lightly, smiling up at him. And then realizes that he’s still frowning. “What?”

“I probably won’t go,” he sighs, hating the way her face falls at this information.

“Oh,” she says softly, her eyebrows furrowing. “Is…is it because of your dad? You don’t want to be around alcohol?”

That would actually be a decent reason in comparison to the one he actually has, but it would also be a lie. He flops onto his back, pushing his hair back from his face. “No, no. I mean, being around drunken people isn’t my favorite activity in the book, but it doesn’t really bother me in a ‘Nam-flashback kind of way.”

She shifts a little closer. “Then what’s wrong, Juggie?”

“There’s just a lot of people in this group text,” he says carefully, not wanting to outright admit that he’s got the social anxiety of a jackrabbit, especially not to the woman he’s still expecting to come to her senses at any moment.

“Not that many,” she replies, grinning a little now. “You should’ve seen the invite list from her last party.”

“I know I’m a writer, but I can still count, Betts, and there a lot of numbers here,” he sighs. He scratches behind his ear, thinking about the lonely spot by the bonfire at Reggie’s party. “I’m not…great at parties, and especially not at ones where I only know three people. I don’t do well with small talk.”

“You know Kevin too,” she says, one of her hands rubbing distractedly at his stomach. She seems to have something of a preoccupation with that part of his body. “And Joaquin.”

He lets out another breath. “What about my favorite person, Persephone, queen of the underworld?”

“Cheryl?” Betty gives a half-hearted roll of the eyes. “She’s not in the text thread. And they’re definitely not there yet. So she won’t be lurking any more dark corners, waiting to bribe you for information.”

“She should’ve tried a bribe last time, she might’ve gotten a little more out of me that way,” Jughead says, which makes Betty smile.

“Oh. You’d say you’re open to bribes, then?” She asks, her hand on his stomach wandering a bit lower.

He pretends to look offended, but makes no effort to readjust her hand. “My stars, Betty Cooper,” he tuts, putting on an attempt at a terrible Southern accent.

“I’m just wondering what I can do to make you want to come,” she says brightly. “To the party,” she adds after a moment, because now he’s grinning. She whacks him in the shoulder. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“You go,” he tells her, shifting so that he’s leaning over her. He drops a kiss onto her jaw. “And you can come here after.”

She actually blushes, but curves her arms around his neck and meets his eyes. “Please, Juggie?” She asks, and he knows that’s it. “I promise I’ll protect you from small talk. And Ronnie said she wants to celebrate you two coming into town; it’s practically in your honor.”

What she doesn’t say is, it’s because you’re leaving this week, but they both hear it anyway.

“It is not,” he snorts. “It’s clearly in Archie’s honor, if anything. But…”

“But?” She repeats hopefully.

“Yeah, I’ll go,” he says, sighing heavily and smiling despite himself.

“Yay!” She squeals, pulling him closer so that she can kiss him fully and he thinks, distinctly not for the first time: worth it.

.

.

.

They have a round of late morning sex—his favorite kind, he realizes, because he gets to see her fully in the rising light—and when she comes, it’s through a string of curses, which is new for her. He likes it.

Afterwards, she announces she has to get to the garage, even though she sounds begrudging and lingers the whole way through dressing. He considers asking her what’s bothering her, but he has an inkling.

The truck is supposed to be done this week.

So he can’t ask, because that definitely would pop the bubble, and watches her go. He dawdles in bed for a little while before showering and heads into the backyard to do some writing outside. The weather has turned humid again, and will be unendurable in the coming afternoon, so he wants to enjoy what he can.

Betty comes home earlier than usual, tenser and less willing to play the mid-century-couple game, and immediately trots upstairs for a long shower. Once she emerges, looking clean and refreshed and willfully cheerful, she parades outfits in front of him for tonight’s party. He’s apparently very unhelpful, because he thinks she looks beautiful in every one of them, but with some heavy prompting, he admits he likes her best in blue.

She pulls on a baby blue top and a short white jean skirt, while he dresses in the same outfit he’d worn for their date. It’d gone over well then, and his options are limited. Betty pulls her hair into her usual ponytail, but this time leaves several locks of blonde laying against her forehead, and they walk to Pop’s for dinner.

They sit on the same side of the booth and do their best to talk about nothing; she’s still got that fidgeting look in her eye, and he’s still not brave enough to ask if it’s what he thinks it is. After a while, Betty glances at her phone, sees a flurry of texts, and exclaims that they’re already late, so they pay and rush to Veronica’s apartment.

“Lonely Boy!” Veronica greets as she throws open the door, beaming at him. She’s wearing something he thinks might be a typical ensemble of a cropped black shirt with an equally dark skirt. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. Archie said it was a fifty-fifty shot.”

Betty grins up at him as Jughead shrugs and says, “Hope he bet against me, then.”

“Noted, for next time,” Veronica smirks, and then moves aside to beckon them into the apartment. “I’ve got IPA and lagers in the kitchen, and Betty—pour toi, a bottle of your favorite rosé is on the counter.”

Raising a cautious eyebrow, Betty laughs. “I thought you said rosé was only suitable as a brunch wine, unless, and I quote, ‘one was at the Riviera.’”

Veronica waves a hand and makes a dismissive sound. It’s just exaggerated enough for Jughead to realize she might be quite tipsy. “Yes, and that’s still all true, but I know you love it. And I already bought it, so! It obviously must be drunk!”

“You’re in a good mood tonight,” Betty observes as they follow her into the kitchen, and Jughead realizes this is true. Granted, he doesn’t have much of a barometer for Veronica at this stage, but the only emotions of hers he’s been exposed to are coquettish, coy, surveying, wary, and coy again.

“I am,” Veronica sighs happily. “I am.”

When she doesn’t say anything else, Betty snorts. “Are you going to tell me why? You quit your job, or something?”

Dropping a none-too-subtle look over at Jughead, Veronica just says, “I wish. No, no, I’ll tell you later, B,” and then flounces out of her kitchen with an announcement that she’s off to be a perfect hostess and that she expects to see them mingling soon. Betty rolls her eyes after her, but fondly all the same, as she digs around in a drawer for a corkscrew.

She pauses just as she’s uncorked the bottle in the same way Archie hesitates before grabbing a beer in front of him. “It’s okay,” he tells her, passing her the large wine glass Veronica had also left out for her and then cracking open a lager for himself. “Really. I promise, the trauma is a lot less obvious than that.”

“But you’ll tell me if anything makes you uncomfortable, right?” She asks softly, clearly dodging his attempt at a joke, her hand on its increasingly most common spot along his jaw. He nods, the bubble moving all the way up to his throat.

She fills her glass with the pink wine and then hooks her arm through his to lead him out of the kitchen. There’s a brief moment where he thinks she might’ve been about to hold his hand, but he’s not sure.

Veronica’s apartment is spacious, but he’s starting to wonder if most of Riverdale is this way. It has an open floor plan, with a relatively small but gleaming kitchen tucked away in the corner, and a couple of doors that must lead to bathrooms, closets, portals to the dimensional reality where he usually lives, and bedrooms, in some order or another.

Whereas Betty’s room had spoken volumes about the push and pull between the person put on display versus the person she truly was, Veronica’s sense of décor fully fits her personality: purple orchids, white vases, but just enough indoor palms and plush dark velvet to evoke a kind of smoky art deco lounge filled with literati and their muses of the century.

Faint music drifts absently through the apartment, and there are probably about twenty some-odd people in milling about across the furniture or leaning up against walls, including Joaquin and Kevin, the latter of whom immediately fixes a wide but rapidly narrowing eye on them. “Hey Kev, hey Joaquin,” Betty says, fidgeting slightly as a furtive smile digs at Kevin’s lips.

His eyes flick over to Jughead, down to the place where Betty’s arm is tucked through his, and back to her. “Hey,” Kevin replies, somehow managing to say quite a lot with that one word. No one says anything else.

“Okay guys, good talk,” Jughead drawls, if only to cut the tension. Joaquin snorts, and it seems to break the silent conversation-slash-staring contest between Kevin and Betty.

She turns to Joaquin. “Thanks again for covering me this morning, by the way.”

He shrugs as if to say no big deal, but Kevin’s head swivels towards him. “You worked in the garage this morning?”

“I overslept,” Betty explains, sighing when Kevin immediately appears to read between the lines.

“Hm, betcha did,” Kevin demurs, taking a long sip from his beer. Betty flushes—it’s true that technically she overslept, but Kevin’s meaning isn’t lost on either of them and to deny that they didn’t afterwards have sex would be a lie.

“We’re going now,” Betty says, falsely bright as her fingers curl around Jughead’s arm. She introduces him to people around the room as they pass through it; most of the people here are friends from work or people from high school, and she says she only really knows a few of them. She doesn’t like Veronica’s coworkers very much and cleanly avoids them, but they have a decent chat with a guy named Dilton who happens to be in town visiting his parents and apparently recently sold his first tech company for a sum he seems itching to announce.

As promised, Betty protects him from small talk. She’s a completely natural charmer, skilled in a way that he could spend decades honing but still never match. She deflects and switches gears like the driver of a car she herself built. Once again, he’s in total awe of her.

Eventually, they find themselves with Archie and Veronica again, and he feels like he can breathe a little easier. Soon after, Veronica and Betty disappear to refill their wine glasses, leaving him with just Archie—which would be fine, except Archie is being evasive and seems uncharacteristically nervous about something.

Jughead opens his mouth to ask him what’s crawled up his ass, but Archie has other ideas. “Dude, wait, you know what I got?” Archie scampers off to a set of hooks and digs around in his coat pocket, one of those bombers that is made to resemble a letterman’s jacket. He retrieves a little Ziploc bag and dangling it in Jughead’s face. “Look what I snagged from Reggie before we left.”

“You stole his weed?” Jughead laughs. “Do you have a death wish?”

Archie scoffs. “Whatever. He’ll never notice, he has so much of it. So, wanna smoke?”

Given that he’s almost done with his allotted beer, he might as well. “Yeah, gimme. I’ll roll it.” He sinks onto a couch and clears a space while Archie disappears back to his jacket and quickly returns with a grinder, some rolling papers, a lighter and leaves him to it, saying he’ll be back in a few. It feels almost like high school again—left to roll a joint in the back of a foggy party he’s never quite sure he agreed to attend. Only this time, he definitely knows why he’s here.

As if hearing her name in his thoughts, Betty plops down beside him, placing her wine on the table as her chin nestles into his shoulder. “Jughead Jones,” she says slowly, and slightly impishly. “You getting high?”

He finishes grinding up the weed and turns to look at her. “Please tell me you were a D.A.R.E. pledge,” he says, which earns him a whack on the arm and a smirk. Depositing the bits of pot into the valley of the paper, he runs his tongue along the edge to seal the joint and then pauses, realizes Betty is staring at it, her pupils blackened.

Jughead finishes his work and tucks it behind his ear as she watches him, biting down hard on her lip. His hand trails up her knee and onto her thigh in order to shift closer. “Got something to share with the class, Officer Cooper?”

She’s looking at him in the way that usually precursors the moment that she pounces on him, but instead she seems to straighten her shoulders with resolve to do the opposite. Disappointment surges through him, but he understands why she might not want to start something she can’t finish in a room full of people.

Betty reaches forward, plucks the joint from behind his ear, and nestles it between her lips. “Got a lighter?”

He quickly grabs it from the table and holds it up for her, flicking on the flame. She drapes herself into the pillows of the couch and takes a puff. He likes this look for her—not necessarily just the joint between her teeth, but the relaxed lean in her posture, the half-lidded and comfortable glow in her eyes as she blows a bit of smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

He has already learned she’s not a person easily unwound, so to see her draped into a couch and smiling lazily at him is enough to fill him with warmth.

She passes him the joint, and he falls back into the couch alongside her as he takes a light hit. “Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” she hums back. The once-familiar hazy din of the pot is already settling above his thoughts and he wants to kiss her so badly, but he’s not sure what she’s comfortable with in front of her friends. He gets his answer quickly though, because she soon closes the space between them. It’s a short kiss; something sweet, and more like a promise, but there all the same.

Hand-in-hand, Archie and Veronica arrive back at the couch just as they’re pulling apart and he tries his best to ignore the smug, satisfied look on Veronica’s face. “Yo, pass that,” Archie says, and Jughead complies. He takes too big a hit and coughs as he releases his smoke, trying to pass it on to Veronica, who declines.

“Not my thing,” she says, one hand held up and the other grasping a nearly empty wine glass. She seems a bit surprised when the joint is then offered to Betty, but more surprised still when she actually takes it. “Uh oh,” she says, amused. “You’re going to regret that.”

“No I won’t,” Betty insists, her eye rolls already becoming more exaggerated.

“I wasn’t talking to you, sweetie,” Veronica replies, glancing at Jughead. “Fair warning, Stoned Betty is a very Emotional Betty.”

“Okay, I don’t get emotional,” Betty scoffs, but it definitely sounds defensive.

Still addressing Jughead, Veronica says, “Last time she smoked pot, she lied on my floor, made me put on Fleetwood Mac while she silently stared at literally nothing, and then immediately spent half an hour crying at the memory of the time she accidentally stepped on a snail, or something.”

“You’re exaggerating.” She pauses. “It wasn’t a snail,” she tells her friend, but drops her head closer to Jughead, her eyes slightly glazed over. “But, I mean, thunder only happens when it’s raining! Isn’t that so beautiful, Juggie?”

She is absolutely already stoned, and he tells her as much, raising his eyebrows. She shushes him and shuffles closer so that she’s fully curled up besides him on the couch. He smirks, draping an arm around her shoulders while he takes another hit of the joint.

One of the things he’s always liked about weed is the body high; the tingling awareness of every inch of skin and the blood moving beneath it; the organs in his chest inhaling and exhaling to the beat of his nerves. With Betty next to him, it’s like that feeling magnified ten fold.

He can feel his heart plucking louder than ever, but the album has flipped. It’s a song he’s never heard.

.

.

.

After they’ve passed the joint around to its last nib, Veronica says they have to get off the couch before they’re all forever fused to it, and insists they dance. Jughead laughs and says no way, but Betty is tugging on his arm and pulling him from the couch, all the while he tells her it’s not going to happen several times. Veronica twirls by her lonesome at what is clearly her favorite spot at the center of the room, and Jughead notes that she’s well past tipsy at this point.

“Oh, shit—hold on, I know what I’m going to play,” Archie says, and then scampers off. The music cuts for the briefest moment before being replaced by the one song Archie must know is sure to annoy him the most. The opening chords to Don’t Stop Believin’ filter through the room, and he groans loudly as Archie approaches them, his head bobbing.

“Boo,” Jughead drawls over the guitar intros, making Betty laugh. “How many bad pubs in Southie do you have to hear this song in before you’ll get sick of it?”

But Archie’s barely listening through his set of air drums. “You can take the boy out of Boston, but you can’t take the pub out of me!” And Jughead doesn’t have a moment to call out how little sense that makes before Archie breaks out into the first lines along with the song, “Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world!”

“Please, I will pay you to stop,” Jughead moans, but Archie is drunk, stoned, and deliberately lost in the song and just waves his pointer fingers in Jughead’s face as he sings, “She took the midnight train, going an-y-whe-e-ere!”

Suddenly, Veronica has thrown her arms around Archie and has joined him in belting out, “Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit! He took the midnight train going any-whe-e-e-re!”

“You two are a match made in hell,” he mutters, as Veronica drunkenly announces that she just loves to sing. A few people have moved into the circle, joining along with the lyrics, and he spots more getting up, even Dilton.

That’s the problem with this song, and really, why he hates it—other than the fact that Archie always puts it on whenever they’re near a jukebox—it’s the hypnotic spell it casts on every person in the vicinity wherein they’re physically incapable of not singing along like complete idiots.

While the first guitar solo takes over, he glances over at Betty by his side, biting her lip through a mischievous grin, and he realizes what’s coming next. “Not you too,” he sighs, but she’s already joined the crowd in their rendition of, “A singer in a smoky room, the smell of wine and cheap perfume!”

As the lyrics announce that for a smile they can share the night, Kevin appears out of nowhere and grabs Betty by the waist, dancing her out of Jughead’s grasp, while the beats of the instruments rise and Veronica and Archie start bouncing and singing the first chorus up at the ceiling. “Strangers! Waiting! Up and down the boule-e-e-vard!” 

Figures move between them like shadows on the wall, and as if in slow motion, the haze of pot and the faint buzz of beer in his eyes, he watches Betty throw her head back in laughter as Kevin dips her. He whispers something in her ear and she giggles even harder. The guitar swells and she looks so beautiful under the dim yellow light.

He has a thought that he cannot admit.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, striding through the swaying crowd to reach her just as the song buoyantly declares that they’re living just to find emotion and hiding somewhere in the night.

Kevin releases Betty in order to drag his boyfriend into the throng, and Jughead happily takes his place, one hand at her waist, the other grasping her hand. It’s possibly the magnetic build of the music, or maybe it’s just the room full of people spinning in circles and releasing the words into the air as their beers slosh around madly, or maybe it’s the pot, or the delight in Betty’s eyes when he touches her, but he finds himself joining in.

“Working hard to get my fill, everybody wants a thrill!” 

Archie whoops and hollers in loud approval when he hears Jughead’s voice in the fray and Veronica’s arms are waving in the air above her, and Betty is dancing with him, their fingers laced, and he loses his voice to the song. “You know the words, after all!” Betty laughs, as he rolls his eyes. 

“Every single person in the country knows the words to this song, Betts,” he says, trying to sigh and appear appropriately brooding, but then the lyrics surge again and the attempt is lost. 

“Some will win, some will lose! Some were born to sing the blues!” They all collectively belt it out at the top of their lungs, practically screaming this goofy, cheesy, terrible, bonding-with-strangers type of music that he definitely hates, except as he twirls Betty in his arms, he thinks he understands the appeal a bit more.

Another guitar solo runs through them and the room is alive with energy. He feels at once so one with the crowd—an unfamiliar feeling, to say the least—and equally alone with just Betty as she moves against him in an entirely new way; with utter, bubbling joy, her ponytail bouncing with her. The song urges everyone to don’t stop believing and to hold onto that feeling and that the movie never ends because it goes on and on, and on, and on—

And he agrees, especially as the moment pulls back and becomes fisheyed, just like the reflection in a bubble twenty years ago.

He spins her again, and the moment goes on and on, and on, and on.

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The playlist is clearly Archie’s, because the music that follows next is a procession of the Doobie Brothers, Steely Dan, and otherwise vague, crowd-pleasing bar music—including one that leads to a terrible rendition of the song Come On Eileen. And despite having exercised his limit of what might be considered dancing, he has to admit he’s having a good time, even as the pot wears off.

Eventually, and with considerable effort on her behalf given her height, Veronica slings her arms over both Archie and Jughead’s shoulders and informs them that they’re low on beer and would they please go get more and that there’s a liquor store just around the corner and please again.

Betty throws him a worried look, clearly not sure what his limits are, but he just kisses her on the cheek and assures her it’s really fine, following Archie out the door.

“Sorry I’ve been self-imposed as persona non grata lately,” Jughead says, as they meet the late spring night air. “I’ve just been…busy. Writing.”

“Uh huh,” Archie muses. “Is that what you’re gonna call it?”

“Shut up,” he says, shoving Archie in the shoulder just hard enough that he stumbles a bit. “I mean, yeah though. I’ve been with Betty.”

Archie waggles his eyebrows. “So I heard from Veronica, who heard from Betty. Sounds like it’s going well, dude.”

It is, he thinks. He looks up at the dark sky and nearly imagines something translucent wiggling overhead, a bubble blown too big. They reach the liquor store, and he is almost thankful for the harsh white light of the fluorescent bulbs, because it feels like a dousing relief from the fog and warmth leftover from the party. He hangs back while Archie selects a few six packs and pays and then they’re on their way back to the apartment.

“Anyway, it’s not like I haven’t been hanging out with Veronica a lot too,” Archie says, grunting as he redistributes the weight of the beers in his arms. Jughead offers to take some, but Archie says he hasn’t been working out lately and that it’ll be good for him. “So it’s okay, dude.”

“Yeah, I just figure we get to see each other all the time, so I didn’t think it was really a big deal,” Jughead sighs. “And we’ll have the drive to Chicago, and back in Boston, and so on.”

Archie doesn’t say anything, and at first Jughead thinks it’s because he’s still trying to figure out the best way to carry all the beers. But then he realizes that Archie has put them down entirely, even though they’re still a block away from Veronica’s.

“Uh, about that,” he says slowly, scratching at his temple. “I have something I gotta tell you.”

“Gee, that’s not ominous at all,” Jughead tries to chuckle, but Archie’s face is rarely serious and it makes him hesitate.

“It’s good news,” Archie says quickly. “It’s… Okay, so I think I’m not going to go to Chicago. I can see my mom another time, and I wanna spend a bit more time with Ronnie here.”

Jughead sighs, because honestly he’s been expecting something like this for a while. Archie is already self-described as head over heels for Veronica and it’s definitely not unlike his best friend to throw away time with him in favor of a girl. And besides, he’d probably be extending his own trip if there weren’t such a specific reason for why he himself has to leave, so he can’t judge. Not really sure why he’d label that good news, but it is Archie, after all.

“Alright,” he says. “We wouldn’t really have had much time to do anything except drive, since we’ve been here so long. I get it. It’s cool.”

He turns to go, thinking that’s the end of it, but Archie is still rooted to the spot. “There’s something else too,” he says tentatively. “So…uh, I’m gonna move to LA.”

Jughead blinks, sure he’s heard him wrong. “You’re—you’re going to what?”

“I’m going to move to LA,” Archie repeats, much firmer now.

He stares at him, and then starts to laugh, even as his stomach sinks low. “What the fuck, Arch, no you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” he insists, his voice growing stronger. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and…it just finally seems like the right moment.”

“You’ve been thinking about it for a while?” Jughead repeats, scoffing derisively. “Yeah, okay, sure. Then why haven’t I ever heard you mention it before?”

“Because—” Archie hesitates, but seems emboldened by the mocking scowl on Jughead’s face. “Because I know I’m, like, your only friend, and I didn’t know how you’d take it.”

“You’re not my only friend,” Jughead spits, even though it’s probably true. Really though, who else does he ever hang out with? He ended things with Ethel amicably enough, and he sees her sometimes, but probably not enough to consider her a friend. Does he even count Reggie, especially if their friendship requires Archie’s presence to bring them together?

“Look, I’ve been telling you for a while that I’m, like, at a wall with work. I can’t keep doing these stupid local commercials forever, it’s really bumming me out. My industry is mostly in LA, and if I’m there, I can try to do songs for TV or movies, or something,” he says in a placating voice, and Jughead hates that Archie actually has a valid point. But then he adds, “And…you know, with Veronica moving there, it just seems like the right time.”

Jughead releases a choked laugh and throws a hand into the air. “There we go. You know, you almost had me there, trying to justify this as a career move. Jesus, this is ridiculous, even for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Archie says, his voice rising.

“I’ve been watching you pull shit like this my whole life, Arch. ‘Sorry Jughead, I can’t go to the Yankees game your dad saved up for because Pepper just really needs to see me,’ or, ‘Actually, Jug, I think I’m going to apply to Berklee School of Music because Valerie said she was.’ Take your fucking pick. You make these impulsive life decisions because of some girl you barely know, and then you’re completely confused at what went wrong when it blows up in your face!”

“I—okay, I applied to Berklee because of Val, but I went there because I love music, okay?” Archie is yelling now. “And fuck off, because none of that’s the same, because I love Veronica!”

Jughead slaps his hand hard across his forehead. “Jesus Christ—you can’t love her, you don’t even know her!” He yells, but as he hears the words come out, they sound oddly like a lie.

“Oh, yeah? What the hell do you know about it, Jug?” Archie snaps, his arms crossed. “You’ve never even been in love! Because you’re too much of a coward to ever try!”

“I’m not a coward,” he hisses, even as he feels as though he’s been sucker punched. A car drives by, the headlights passing over them as Jughead’s chest begins to stutter. He’s not a coward, he’s got issues. There’s a difference. Right?

“Yes, you fucking are,” Archie seethes. “Or it wouldn’t have taken you a million years to make a move on Betty when you were so clearly into her from the start. I mean, dude, have you even told her that you like her yet?”

“I—” Jughead feels all the words and breath leave his lungs all at once. “She knows I like her.”

“Have you actually told her that, though?” Archie scoffs. “Because Veronica said that Betty was really confused about what you wanted.”

He inhales sharply, indignation surging. “What the hell, do you guys talk about us? It’s none of your fucking business what—”

“Veronica was just asking because she wanted to look out for Betty, because she’s a good friend and a kind, protective person,” Archie interrupts, scowling madly. “And the woman I love.”

“You’ve known her for three weeks!” Jughead yells, almost delirious with exasperation. “You cannot love her! It doesn’t work like that!”

“Tell me how it works, then,” he snarls. “Go ahead. Enlighten your much stupider friend with a-a-all you know about love.”

His mouth opens and closes once. “It…takes work, and time—you—you compromise and grow, you don’t just—”

“That’s just a relationship,” Archie interrupts, smug with dark satisfaction for the moment wherein he understands something that Jughead doesn’t. “Love is the feeling when you look at someone, or how you feel when they walk in a room. It’s the way I know I’m not ready to say goodbye to her. You’d know that, if you ever even tried.”

He realizes Archie is right, and it sends his blood boiling. That kind of love is the thing one he’s always craved and all the while justified not looking for because it always felt so unattainably complicated, like a riddle with no end, and it cannot be that obvious or that simple. It just can’t.

He wants to punch Archie.

“Fuck you,” he says instead, and because he can’t admit to anything else. Jughead turns on his heel and storms away, with no destination in mind as long as it’s far fucking away from Archie and his childish fantasies about love and life.

“Yeah, well, fuck you too!” Archie shouts at his back.

His feet carry him past Veronica’s apartment, past Pop’s, past the turn off for Betty’s street, and onwards into the night. He stomps up the stairs to his motel room and slams the door shut loudly behind him, his fist punching uselessly once at the wall when that doesn’t satisfy him. He curses loudly and slides down onto the floor.

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Later, he realizes he never actually popped the bubble.

In the end, Archie did.

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