Chapter Text
It’s Betty who suggests she call Jughead, rambling on about how time has flown, feeling more nostalgic than usual during their weekly chat.
“Jughead’s living in New York, too, Veronica,” Betty mentions, her voice dripping with an excess amount of sugar, reminding her of the blonde she met eight years ago, Betty’s sweet girl-next-door persona firmly in place. “It might be nice to see him, to know someone in the city.”
The suggestion seems innocent enough and, though she knows Betty means well, she can honestly say that it isn’t a good idea, something that runs through her mind on a loop, as if she’s somehow forgotten.
“I don’t know, Betty-” She’s hesitant, not wanting to hurt her best friend, not wanting to crush whatever dreams Betty has already begun creating for the two of them. “Wouldn’t it be weird, for me and Jughead to-”
She’s unable to complete the sentence, not even sure what she would have said, interrupted by the light sound of Betty’s laughter, soft and gentle (and so very Betty).
“V, I’m not saying you and Jug should get married,” Betty sounds amused, as if she knows how much awkwardness she’s created for her friend and is reveling in her own power. “And besides, it would only be weird if you made it weird – it’s not like I’m still in love with him or anything.”
Betty sounds breezy and happy as she says the comment, her tone light-hearted as if she hadn’t called Veronica for nights on end, lamenting the end of her relationship with Jughead, the end of something she had never though would end, as if Veronica didn’t spend countless nights their freshman year listening to Betty wonder about what had happened to the dark-haired writer, questioning what he had done after graduation.
“He and Archie are still friends and, honestly, I think it would be good for you to hang out with someone for a little while, to break free from your apartment for a few hours.”
Veronica finds herself nodding, even though Betty can’t see her, looking around at the unpacked boxes cluttering her apartment, the things she decided were important enough to take with her as she moved across the country, desperate to escape her father’s control and her Stanford sweetheart, Nick St. Clair.
It’s a bad idea, her mind is practically screaming that she needs to make up some sort of excuse, something iron-clad that will take precedence over any sort of potential meeting with Jughead, something that will make Betty stop worrying about her.
“We weren’t even really friends in high school” is the best she can come up with, the excuse falling from her lips before she has the chance to filter it, the chance to reconsider that statement. It’s truthful – they only really spent time with one another because of their connections with Archie and Betty, were only in one another’s orbits by association – and a little bitter, memories of moments when she tried to be nice to Jughead, moments when he blamed her for her father’s crimes running through her mind, flashing like some sort of home video.
“You guys were friendly,” Betty argues, though she’s lacking the same amount of assurance that has supported her other claims, as if she already knows this one is a further stretch than she wants it to be. “And, besides, everyone has changed since we were back in Riverdale, V. Maybe this is your chance to really get to know Jughead.”
She doesn’t love the idea, doesn’t think it’s a great one at all, but she agrees because she wants to make Betty happy, wants to show the blonde (and herself) that she isn’t afraid of anything, that she’s not the same girl who cowered behind her family name like she had the last time she was walking the streets of New York City.
She’s changed: she’s not the same girl she was in high school, clinging to Archie’s popularity and the Rivervixens, attempting to grapple with her father’s wrongdoings.
Veronica Lodge left New York immediately after graduation, headed for the sunny beaches of California, but is back in the city to remind everyone that she can handle herself, that there’s more to her than just her family name and wealth, that she isn’t the same person that left Riverdale six years ago.
Admittedly, she doesn’t think this meet-up with Jughead is going to go well, can already picture the multiple ways it won’t, but at least she’ll have the chance to show him, someone who has always remained skeptical of her, someone who never truly accepted her fully, that she’s different now, that she’s broken free from the Lodge name and made something of herself (on her own).
Her job as a fashion editor at GQ is time-consuming and taxing in all of the best ways, which is how she justifies waiting three weeks to call Jughead using the number Betty had easily rattled off during their earlier conversation.
Jughead sounds surprised to hear her voice, sounds as if Archie hadn’t told him she might be calling (she’s pretty sure he did), and agrees to meet her at the restaurant she suggests in the Upper West Side, the one she hasn’t been back to since she first left New York City at the prime age of 16.
The restaurant, the one she fondly associates with times when her family was picturesque, times when she hadn’t known about her father’s illicit activities or the unhappiness that lined her mother’s eyes, is a little more formal than she remembered, a little more Gossip Girl than she had intended. Sitting at the table, nursing a glass of cabernet as she waits for Jughead, scanning the menu again, resisting the urge to check her phone, to check the time again, she wonders if this is how Jughead greets all of his dates, twenty minutes late without any sort of message excusing his absence, wonders if he’s changed his mind about the two of them meeting up (as friends or as something more – she didn’t really specify labels on the phone).
“I’m surprised you called, Veronica,” Jughead mutters as he makes his way toward her table, the top few buttons of his blue shirt unbuttoned, his hair looking perfectly messy. He looks more attractive than she remembers, more assured than he had in high school, as if somehow he’s found his stride in the city, as if he needed to get away from Riverdale and his pre-destined place as the Serpent Prince to really find his place in the world – he’s underdressed, of course he’s underdressed, but she doesn’t seem to really notice when he offers her his signature smirk, taking the seat across from her.
“Right, well I guess I figured we could burry our mutual distaste for one another, especially since-” She doesn’t finish her sentence, cringing slightly, though both clearly understand the words that have gone unsaid, Archie and Betty’s reunion looming over them (in her head, she can hear Jughead’s voice mumbling something about inevitability and how it was only a matter of time). “I just moved back to the city and figured, who better to show me around than Jughead Jones the third.”
She offers him what she hopes looks like a genuine smile, a peace offering, a promise not to bring up their best friends, the intricate way they are connected, the past they share. He nods slightly in acknowledgment, picking up the menu in front of him as a silence falls over the table – her mind races with potential topics of conversation, desperate to find something to say, a way to ease the suffocating tension that has fallen over them.
“Betty said you published a novel,” she all but blurts out, her thoughts completely unfiltered as she begins berating herself, internally questioning her own sanity as Jughead’s eyes quickly meet hers, curiosity swirling in the bright blue depths she’s never looked directly into.
“Yeah, I’ve actually written two.” His response is hesitant and short, as if he’s waiting for her to say something else, perhaps waiting for the unsolicited book review he’s accustomed to or some sort of criticism (she feels like an idiot for mentioning a book she hasn’t read, for blatantly suggesting she only cares about him when Betty mentions him). “Arch mentioned you were working for GQ.”
He mentions her ex-boyfriend as casually as she mentioned his own ex, as if the relationship was nothing short of a slight slip in Betty and Archie’s great love story, as if the mention of how she was likely just a place-holder for the blonde doesn’t sting her (if anyone knows the feeling, it’s him, she decides).
The statement confirms the fact that Archie likely goaded him into agreeing to the outing, that there were discussions about it that she will never know about, never have the chance to hear, and she feels a little bit of relief at the fact that this likely isn’t something he would have chosen to do on his own, that this date is forced on his end, as well, likely meant to placate Archie’s (Betty’s) concerns.
“Oh, yeah, I’m actually a fashion editor.” She’s torn between showcasing how proud she is, emphasizing how important the job is, how hard she worked to get to the place she’s in, and hiding behind the title, waving it away as if she had always known it was hers.
There’s a brief moment where she thinks he might suggest she elaborate on the statement, might ask what it means to be a fashion editor and how she fell into the position, but his attention turns back to the leather-bound menu is his hands, eyes scanning it meticulously, as if it’s more interesting than just a piece of paper with a list of basic entrees at high prices.
She waits a few more moments, allowing him the chance to offer some sort of (any) input before clearing her throat, Jughead’s gaze meeting her own lazily, as if asking for his unsolicited attention is too much to require of him, as if he would rather be reading the menu, studying it as if there’s an upcoming exam, rather than reconnecting (she cringes as she thinks of the word) with her.
He looks expectant, as if she should state her case quickly before his attention returns back to the menu, and it is at that moment that she decides Betty and Archie have clearly gotten the wrong idea, that there is no way she can stand another awkward second of being ignored.
“This was… fun, but I actually have to-”
Before she finishes whatever lie she was about to rattle off, Jughead is placing the menu back on the table, a smirk tugging at the corner of lips as he nods, a gesture of understanding, something akin to victory shining in his blue eyes (she hates him a little bit in that moment, hates the way he looks like he’s been proven right, as if this meal was all just some sort of ruse to him).
“Lodge, it’s totally fine, rather anticipated – it’s clear that this is all for Archie and Betty’s sake and, now that it’s happened, at least we can report back that we’ve completed their little social experiment and it isn’t going to work.” He says it as if there are no other conclusions to be drawn, sliding his chair from under the table as he offers her a wave before leaving the restaurant, leaving her looking like the pathetic girl who got abruptly dumped by her too cool to follow a dress code boyfriend.
Later, after she’s indulged in a savory meal of truffle mac and cheese, has had a few glasses of the best pinot in the city, and decides that she’s tired of seeing everyone’s pitying glances, she makes her way back into the New York City cold, quickly dialing Betty’s number as she goes, leaving the blonde multiple long-winded voicemails about how horrific the evening went and how extremely demented she must be to have thought Veronica and Jughead could be anything more than barely-acquaintances.
She ignores Betty’s apologetic text messages, sends all of her calls to voicemail (which she also deletes), and forcefully ignores all of the blonde’s long-winded emails until Betty announces that she and Archie are moving to the city in one of the subject lines, the words written in all caps.
Veronica skims the email quickly before calling her best friend, gushing over all of the places they’ll have to explore in the city, chatting as if she hadn’t been mad about the date from literal hell (she does, however, make Betty promise that she won’t try any more set-ups and she notices that the blonde carefully never mentions Jughead when she’s in the room, both of which she’s grateful for).
Archie and Betty get married (because of course, they’re the kind of couple that can make it work, the kind that she’s always envied a little more than she likes to admit) in a ceremony that seems as if it was pulled straight out of a storybook, the venue covered in twinkle lights and pink peonies.
In his vows, Archie mentions how he missed it at the beginning, how he didn’t realize how much he loved Betty until she was with someone else, how he only really saw her when they were together in Boston, away from the prying eyes of their hometown and the endless gossip loop (and, okay, his vows sting because he’s basically calling her a distraction, but she hides any sort of reaction, instead smiling for her best friend as she stands as the maid-of-honor, pretending the entire ordeal doesn’t feel like a blow to the heart).
Betty mentions inevitability and soulmates in her vows, shedding a few tears as she tells Archie that, even when she was helplessly trying to get over him, to discover who she was without him, he was still firmly planted in her heart (which, though she doesn’t look in his direction, she knows must hurt Jughead a little).
She realizes, as they’re all standing together, the four of them huddled together in a majority of the pictures, that she doesn’t want Archie anymore (thank god), but rather, she wants someone to look at her the way he looks at Betty, to smile at her as if she’s the only thing he can see.
Instead of a romance that rivals the one her best friend has, she has Jughead, who is looking a little too dapper in the Hugo Boss suit she selected for the groomsmen, wearing a genuine smile that she’s honestly never seen, his eyes sparkling with something she thinks might actually be happiness (it’s weird, considering how broody he was in high school, but she doesn’t question it, doesn’t want to associate with him, even though it’s been two years since their non-date).
“You gave a nice speech, Lodge,” he offers as he makes his way toward her (or, more specifically, toward the bar, where she has practically made herself at home, her shoes dangling from one hand as a champagne flute hangs from the other). “A little too emotional, maybe, but nice, nonetheless.”
She shrugs off his comment easily, remembering that his own speech had been tinted with his usual self-deprecating humor, though laced with memories of the three of them together, of how he had always thought this would be how things would turn out (guests who knew him in high school, who remember how in love he and Betty were, resist the urge to cringe at the words, though he says them without any trace of bitterness, says them as if he’s just stating a fact).
Admittedly, it was a nice speech, one that made people laugh more than her own did, one that made Archie’s eyes look a little misty as he and Betty shared some sort of secret conversation no one else was privy to – he was a writer, after all, so she had assumed he would have done something decent, especially since he had recently published a third novel.
“Well, Jughead, at least my speech didn’t leave some people feeling awkward, as if they should apologize to you,” Veronica snaps, turning her head quickly in his direction, desperate to see his reaction, to watch as he cringes as her words sink in, mean-girl façade slipping easily in place as if she never outgrew it. “At least people seemed to like my speech.”
She’s insulted and a little drunk, and the snort Jughead tries to conceal at her comment does nothing but anger her further, as if he can’t believe she has the audacity to insult what he probably thought was a work of genius, as if her speech can’t even compare to the one he gave.
“Oh yes, I found the ten-minute-long spiel about how girl code and dibs works very endearing,” he mutters and, if she were thinking properly, if she hadn’t had a few too many flutes of champagne, she would see that he’s clearly baiting her, waiting for her to react.
Before she has the chance to even consider a retort, to think of the perfect sentence that will sting him as much as his comments seem to hurt her, the brunette Jughead brought along as his date (Victoria? Vivian?) appears at his side, dragging him toward the dance floor, batting her eyelashes quickly as if it’s going to make him hate the activity any less (she knows the other woman’s tactics aren’t working, can tell how much Jughead hates it as he stiffly sways to the music).
Taking another sip from her flute, biting back a smile at the awkwardness Jughead practically radiates from the dance floor, she attempts to think of something besides how alone she feels in this moment, how pathetic she must look at the bar while everyone (even Jughead) dances to the music, enjoying the happy atmosphere of the wedding.
She tries not to think about how she seems to be the only one alone, how everyone seems to be in love (or at least have someone) besides her but, as her eyes drift back toward Jughead and the brunette, she can’t help but lament on her own sadness, turning toward the bartender to order something stronger.
Walking back into Pop’s, the bell ringing as she steps onto the linoleum tile, Veronica can’t help but feel as if she’s stepped into some sort of time vortex, as if she’s suddenly back in high school, spending almost every evening sandwiched in the booth with her friends, trying to ignore Jughead’s ramblings about the latest disgrace to the American Dream, sipping strawberry milkshakes and just being young.
Archie and Betty are already on one side of their old booth, heads bent together as they whisper back and forth, love practically radiating off of the two of them, as if they’re in their own little bubble, as if they’re exactly the same people they were in high school, though also completely different (she doesn’t even know what she’s thinking as the thought crosses her mind, nostalgia crashing over her in waves).
“Well, I guess that rules out divorce,” Jughead’s voice rumbles from behind her, the dark-haired boy studying their friends as if he’s searching for the reason they might have been summoned back to Riverdale, trying to piece together the latest mystery that’s been presented to him (likely documenting every moment in his mind, waiting for the chance to pull out his laptop and begin transcribing each detail).
His voice startles her (she hadn’t been aware that he was already there, let alone behind her), though she doesn’t jump like she might have in high school, more than used to the way he seems to linger around, to go undetected until he decides he wants to be seen.
“Oh please, as if you actually thought America’s Golden Couple was going to get a divorce,” Veronica rolls her eyes, as if the slight gesture emphasizes her point, as if she hadn’t silently considered it a possibility when Betty insisted that meeting at Pop’s was mandatory and extremely important.
Instead of responding, Jughead shrugs and steps in front of her, headed toward their friends, more than ready to pop whatever bubble they’ve enclosed themselves in, sliding into the empty side of the booth as if he’s done it more than a million times, as if he’s used to whatever routine Betty and Archie are trying to remind them of (she reminds herself that he did spend a majority of his time at Pop’s, that he’s probably more comfortable here than at the house with Alice and FP)(she doesn’t even want to touch that topic with a six-foot pole, her mind still reeling from when Betty mentioned the seemingly unholy union a couple of years ago).
She tentatively follows behind him, sitting down in the booth slowly, as if sudden movements are going to cause some sort of scene, as if she’s trying to be more discreet (she doesn’t even know why she would be wanting that, but she does it anyway), leaving a reasonable amount of space between she and Jughead without practically falling off of the red bench seat.
“Hey guys, not that I don’t love taking a walk down memory lane, but what the hell are we doing back at Pop’s?”
Jughead’s statement is blunt and to the point, his blue eyes swirling with curiosity and confusion, as if he’s looking at a puzzle he can’t solve, as if someone has told him that the world was flat, after all. Sparing a quick glance in his direction, she wonders if he misses the old gray beanie he used to wear, wonders if he realizes that it’s absence is really the only thing that differentiates this scene from one they used to share nearly a decade ago.
Archie and Betty both squirm a little, mouths opening and closing as they attempt to string together the right words, all the while making her feel more anxious about the meeting: sure, they weren’t getting divorced, but maybe one of them was terminally ill or they were moving away from the city or-
“We’re having a baby.” Betty’s eyes widen as soon as the words leave her lips, as if she can’t believe she said them in such a straightforward manner, without any warning or preamble, without the speech she probably practiced a dozen times in the mirror.
She looks between Archie and Betty, as if waiting for one of them to elaborate, before Jughead’s hesitant, “Congratulations,” fills the air, easing some of the tension that has fallen over the four of them, though it leaves something else behind.
“I can’t believe you guys are-” She doesn’t finish the statement, doesn’t know how she wants it to end, whether she wants to suggest she can’t believe they’re actually having a baby or that they’re actually going to be parents or-
“We called you both here because we were hoping you would be our baby’s godparents,” Archie says, a look of pure happiness reflected on his face as he looks hopefully in their direction, as if he’s anticipating hesitation from the two of them, as if he understands he’s asking for something bigger than he should be, but wants them to agree anyways.
“Jug, Veronica, there really isn’t a world we can imagine where we raise this baby without the two of you,” Betty adds after a moment, noting the moment of silence, the shocked expressions on both of their faces, the way neither has found the right words to say.
“Betty, of course,” Veronica smiles after a minute, trying to envision herself playing with Archie and Betty’s child, sitting through fake tea parties with a short blonde girl who has bigger dreams than she knows what to do with, taking a small boy with Archie’s brown eyes to the park, to see the animals at the zoo.
Admittedly, she’s not a kid person, hasn’t really spent enough time with them to even decide how she feels about them, but she knows she’s going to like this one, knows that she’s going to find room in her heart to love her best friend’s child.
“Arch,” Jughead’s voice is soft, a sort of tenderness she’s never really heard from him, acceptance clear in his tone as he looks across the booth at their friends, disbelief and excitement written across his face.
The smile that stretches across her face is genuine when she orders them all a round of milkshakes, when she insists that the baby is going to be spoiled by their Aunt Veronica, that she and Betty need to start getting things ready as soon as possible.
A part of her brain can’t comprehend the fact that there’s going to be a baby around in less than six months, that Archie and Betty have actually made a person, someone who they’re going to be responsible for, to take care of for the rest of their lives – she can’t believe that they’re old enough to be parents, let alone that this is something they wanted.
The other part of her brain, the smaller part of her brain, reminds her of old high school fantasies, of dreams where she and Archie would have their own children, would live happily ever after as if it was ever in the cards for them.
In between the laughter, the nostalgia, and a few rounds of burgers, she finds herself wondering if Jughead thinks these kinds of things, too, but doesn’t ask. Instead, she orders another milkshake and starts discussing nursery themes with Betty.
Juliette Cecilia Andrews is born at 4:26 in the morning on May 1: Veronica has been trying not to fall asleep in the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room, doing everything from pacing the tiled floors to splashing copious amounts of water on her face, desperate to hold the baby as soon as possible, desperate to hold the baby as soon as possible, to show Betty and Archie how responsible she’s become, how they haven’t made a mistake by asking her to be a part of their daughter’s life.
Jughead comes running into the waiting room around 4:20, leather messenger bag thrown over his shoulder, hair a complete mess, still clad in his plaid pajama pants, as if he hadn’t thought about what would be socially appropriate, as if he hadn’t cared about what anyone might think of him, desperate to get to Juliette, to meet the baby they’ve both already grown to love.
“Is she here yet? Did I miss it?” He’s heaving slightly, a reminder that Jughead was never the most athletic guy, never the most into physical fitness.
“No, you haven’t missed it yet Torombolo.” She tries to sound condescending, tries to guilt him into feeling bad that he hasn’t been waiting alongside her since she got Archie’s message a couple of hours ago, the red-head swearing the baby would be coming “any minute now,” but instead her voice sounds soft, perhaps a little endearing (she tells herself it’s exhaustion, that her brain isn’t functioning right due to the complete lack of sleep she’s suffering from). “Where have you been?”
He practically falls into the chair beside her, pretending as if the hard plastic isn’t as uncomfortable as she thinks it is, acting as if it’s some sort of relief to be sitting beside her (usually, he makes it seem like it’s a chore, offering an overdramatic sigh before he takes his assigned place), before he mutters, lowly, “There was a problem that required a little more help with the Serpents.”
His voice is low, like it’s some sort of secret shame, the affiliation with the gang he’s been a member of since their teenage years, the group of people who treated him as one of their own when his familial life was in shambles, decidedly not meeting her gaze as he makes his confession.
She doesn’t respond to the statement, doesn’t know what the appropriate response would even be, her mind racing with the fact that she thought he had given up being a member of his father’s gang, she thought he had let that part of his identity stay in the past (though, notably, she doesn’t judge him – she knows how hard it is to leave behind family members, to finally see them in an unflattering light).
Her own parents, Hiram and Hermione, are serving their own sentences – Hiram’s court-decided sentence at Florence High, the nation’s most surveillanced prison, where nothing goes completely undetected, and though Hermione isn’t locked behind any sort of iron bars, isn’t being constantly watched like Hiram, she is still living in Riverdale, listening to the harsh whispers of the unforgiving population, trying to make the right choices in the faces of people who are expecting her to make a mistake (Veronica thinks her mother’s fate is a little worse, thinks she wouldn’t be able to be doing the things her mother is, with the same grace that the older woman exudes).
Silence stretches between them, comfortable and easy, until Archie rushes through the doors of the maternity ward, brightly announcing that Juliette has arrived, earning multiple glares from people who had been trying to sleep, people who don’t care about what he’s saying.
Veronica rushes toward him, arms open wide as she offers him one of her best hugs, the weight and reality of the situation slowly sinking in, her mind repeating the fact that her best friends are parents on loop, a wave of disbelief and self-depreciation sweeping over her as Archie releases her and offers Jughead a warm embrace.
It feels like an out-of-body experience, the confirmation that, though she’s reached success in her professional life, she’s always going to be behind in her personal affairs, never measuring up to her friends. Archie is speaking quickly, arms flailing as he nods and heads back towards Betty’s room, but she doesn’t hear a word he says, doesn’t process the fact that he’s probably given her some sort of instructions, probably expects her to head back to meet the baby (that is why she’s been in the hospital for these last couple hours, after all).
Instead of following Archie, instead of simply nudging her and bringing her back to reality, Jughead hesitantly pulls her into his warm embrace, the slight weight of his arms helping bring her back to reality, his soft sighs reminding her that she’s not the only one who can’t measure up to the Golden Couple, that someone else understands the rollercoaster of emotions she seems to be on.
“One day,” he mutters lowly, resting his head on top of hers as she allows herself to revel in his warmth, in the stability he’s providing her.
They break apart after a few long moments, after Jughead mutters something about how Archie will likely come looking for them again, and he leads them toward Betty’s room, where the perfect family has been brought together in what she can only describe as a Hallmark moment.
Betty is watching the baby with glassy eyes, looking down at the pink bundle as if she might be hallucinating, as if the baby could disappear at any moment, as if this is something she always wanted and never thought she could have. Archie, who is planted firmly beside his wife on the bed, the two of them squished together, is watching the two of them with a fondness she’s grown accustomed to seeing on his face, eyes sparkling with adoration as he holds his daughter’s hand, as he whispers all of the things he wants for her to experience, all of the hopes he already has for the newborn.
Jughead has the sense to knock before they enter the room, to warn the family that they are going to be interrupting this moment, to allow Archie a second to insist they come back later, that this is time for family, and Betty brightly announces that they should enter, her eyes never leaving the baby.
“Guys, meet your goddaughter, Juliette Cecilia Andrews.” Archie’s voice is booming with pride and, when she looks in Jughead’s direction, she can see that even he’s getting a little emotional about the moment.
“She’s beautiful,” Veronica whispers, smiling at the baby, trying not to cry at the fact that they’ve given their baby her middle name, that they’ve honored her by naming their favorite person after her (she knows that Juliette is a tribute to Jughead, knows that it was the only name Betty and Archie could agree on, but doesn’t dwell too much on the fact now that she can actually see the baby).
Jughead nods, seeming at a loss for words, as if this sentence is the most important one he will ever compose, as if what he says about Juliette carries more weight than any of the other sentences he’s strung along. “She’s perfect,” he whispers after a moment, meeting Betty’s gaze instantly, the blonde offering him a slight smile, one of genuine thanks, of understanding.
Looking at Archie, Betty, and Juliette once more, observing the obvious adoration that colors their features, the gentleness in their movements, the natural way her best friends regard the baby, she can’t help but think that the baby is luckier than she knows, that she already has something that she (Veronica) has never had.
“Betty, I’m sure that everything is going to go perfectly,” Veronica mutters as she follows her best friend through Betty and Archie’s renovated Brooklyn brownstone, a role of tape in one hand and a package of uninflated balloons in the other.
Honestly, looking around the living room, attempting not to cringe at the excessive amount of pink and glitter scattered around the room, Veronica finds it hard to believe that Juliette is actually one, that it’s been a year since she held the blonde baby for the first time, big brown eyes blinking in her direction, filled with unspoken questions, a curiosity she instantly recognized as something she shared with her father.
“I know V, I guess I’m just a little-” Betty sniffles a little, her voice lost at the end of the statement, trying to hold in the wave of emotions she’s been feeling all day, the sadness she feels at the fact that her baby is actually turning one.
Betty’s emotional rollercoaster is something she’s become familiar with, something she’s seen more times than she can even count since Juliette’s birth: Betty had cried for half an hour the first night she spent away from the baby, tearfully calling Archie and Jughead every ten minutes, desperate for a status update, had been an emotional wreck during Juliette’s first Christmas, insisting everything be traditional and perfect (honestly, Veronica thought she was looking at a young Alice Cooper, something Jughead laughed at when she whispered the accusation to him), had changed her mind about the theme of this party more times than Veronica would even like to think about, with Kevin taking over planning after she decided (for a fifth time) that the party shouldn’t have a theme.
“Juliette is one lucky girl,” Veronica smiles, looking around at the gifts that are piled high on the kitchen counter, the cake that’s perfectly iced near the sink, the living room that has transformed into what she can only describe as Archie’s worst nightmare, noticing Archie and Betty’s unconditional love, the great lengths they’re willing to go for their daughter’s happiness (even though she’s hardly a year old and is happy literally all of the time).
It startles her, a little, to think about how much she’s grown to care about her best friends’ baby, what lengths she would go to in order to ensure the little girl’s happiness – considering she was awake and out of the Upper East Side by 9 o’clock the morning to prepare for the party, dragging large bags of decorations and presents behind her as she took the subway, she knows the little girl has her wrapped effortlessly around her little finger.
The party, though theme-less, goes flawlessly, with children racing around the small backyard as adults sip wine and socialize (read: allow themselves to let loose completely, trusting in the numerous nannies to handle their children). It’s a little reminiscent of her own childhood, of the way she had been raised – her parents always seemed to be on the sidelines, watching her carefully as the nanny tended to her wounds, to her care, while they socialized and rubbed elbows with people they deemed socially acceptable (the thought makes her want to throw up a little – she quietly excuses herself, desperate to get away for a few moments).
She knows that the life Juliette has is nothing like the one she had – Juliette has loving parents who couldn’t be more hands-on if they tried, she has a support system, a web of people who are always willing to prioritize her, and the sort of family dynamic that young Veronica always dreamed of – but the party brings back bad feelings, a slight reminder of her past and an even bigger suggestion of what her life could have been like, had her parents been more active in her life, had they cared more about her than their careers.
Her mother, though arguably too many years too late, has apologized on numerous occasions, has tried to explain her motives and the situations she was forced into, has told her that there is nothing she loves more than her daughter, but Veronica has always had a hard time forgiving the older woman, a hard time accepting the endless apologies. She knows Hermione is trying, knows she’s being honest and genuine, there’s just something about-
“They’re uh… cutting the cake,” Jughead’s voice draws her out of her angst-ridden thoughts and, judging by the look on his face, she thinks he’s probably just as uncomfortable in the party setting, watching families interact that bare minimal resemblance to their own familial unit.
He’s leaning against the doorframe of the nursery, wearing the same blue shirt he had worn to their non-date, looking hesitant and understanding, his blue eyes scanning their goddaughter’s nursery, likely reflecting on all of the time and effort it took to make the room come together (she knows Jughead and Archie assembled all of the furniture with Fred, knows that the three of them spearheaded the whole remodel of the brownstone which had taken months).
For a second, she wonders if she should just ask him the questions she’s thinking about, curious as to what might happen if she allowed herself to be vulnerable with Jughead – would they bond over their less-than-traditional pasts or would he brush her comments aside with a sense of sarcasm and a shrug?
Instead, with a looming sense of the unknown hanging over her head, she asks, “Do you know what flavor it is?”
The look he offers her is flat and incredulous, as if she’s somehow insulted his intelligence by suggesting he didn’t, by undermining his love for cake and (generally) all food.
“Vanilla, the one with the sprinkles in the batter.” Funfetti, she mentally corrects him, her inner voice sounding a little pretentious and all-knowing. “I saw like five kids eyeing it, so if you’re going to be a while longer…” He looks pained, like he knows he should wait for her, should offer her some sort of comfort, but is still thinking about the food that is waiting for him, the high levels of sugar just dying to be ingested.
“No, I’m- let’s go,” she offers him a slight smile before breezing past him on her way to the kitchen, mentally preparing herself for the screaming of sugar-filled kids, of the chaos she’s sure is happening on the lower level, descending the stairs at a slower pace.
The cake, which is funfetti with orange frosting according to Alice, who corrects Jughead no less than five times, is a major success with the kids and adults, alike. They take pictures – pictures of Betty and Archie with Juliette, offering the baby her first slice of cake, pictures with the four of them crowded around the baby’s highchair, all cooing over the small girl, and even a couple of she and Jughead with Juliette (Betty insists they’re necessary for Juliette’s scrapbooks and promises they look “perfect V, I can send you a few copies if you want!”).
“I’d like to propose a toast!” Archie declares after all of the guests have left, after Juliette has gone to bed and they’ve shuttled Alice into a taxi for the evening, the four of them sitting on the living room floor, bags filled with trash laying around them as they take a break from their clean-up duties.
Betty hands them each flutes of champagne, smiling brightly, as if she had known this was going to happen, had prepared for such an occasion (Veronica wonders if this is when they’re going to announce that they’re having another baby, if that’s even possible given the fact that… she stops herself from thinking about it, instead deciding to just listen to whatever Archie is going to say).
“It’s been one hell of a year and, honestly, Betts and I couldn’t have made it through without both of your help,” Archie says after a moment, after he’s sure that he has everyone’s full attention, his eyes watering slightly at the sentiment.
Veronica smiles and raises her glass, Jughead following suit, and, for once, she notices that there is no argument, no corrections being made, no further discussion (if she weren’t so tired, she might think this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship for the two of them).
Betty calls her, sounding frantic and panicked, beginning the conversation with a rushed, "What are you doing tonight?" that sounds a little more accusatory than she thinks her friend might have meant it to.
"A little online shopping, a little Breakfast at Tiffany's, maybe learning to cook something for Cheryl's brunch next month, why?" Veronica asks curiously, making her way down the busy New York City street, various shopping bags hanging from her arms as she makes her way toward her Upper East Side apartment, ignoring the stares of people as she walks by with her expensive clothes and her clear over-indulgence in designer apparel. "Is something wrong, Betty?"
"The babysitter cancelled this morning and Archie has-" Betty doesn't need to finish her sentence, Veronica is more than aware of Archie's big music concert (technically, the school Archie teaches for is having the concert and he isn't the one performing, but she tells herself those are all technicalities): somehow Archie has managed to mention the concert in every conversation for the last two months, practically glowing with pride at the success of his summer program, bragging about his students' growth and the potential he sees in each one.
"-the concert," Veronica answers automatically, cringing slightly as she thinks about his rambles, about how defeated he would be if Betty weren't in the audience to support him. "How can I help, B?"
She asks as if she doesn't already know what the blonde is going to say, as if she hasn't already predicted the fact that the blonde is going to ask her to babysit (something she's never done alone), as if her apartment isn't filled with a million different hazards that a baby could potentially choke on.
"Listen, V, we already called Jug, but he has an important book event tonight and, honestly, if you say no, we're going to have to ask Kevin or Cheryl, both of whom..." It's clear the blonde doesn't want to voice what they're both saying, doesn't want to offend their friends (even though there's no way they'd ever know she said it), doesn't even want to admit that she doesn't think they're the best around children.
"Okay, what time will you be dropping Juliette off?" Anxiety is bubbling in her, her mind yelling that this is a bad idea, while she mentally makes a list of all the things she's going to have to put away before the baby comes to her apartment.
They drop her off at five with armfuls of baby stuff: a travel crib, some sort of playmat that Archie assembles in her living room, a diaper bag brimming with diapers and multiple changes of clothes, blankets, a backpack filled with baby toys and books, a carrier, and even a collapsable high-chair. Veronica can't contain the giggles that escape, the two of them dressed to the nines, hulling in multiple armfuls of plastic and cloth (honestly, she doesn't even want to know how they managed to get everything into a cab).
"I didn't realize Juliette would be moving in permanently," Veronica jokes, taking the baby from Betty's arms, making a slight face at the small girl, who smiles back.
"Maybe we should have just had you come to our place," Betty mutters after a minute, seemingly realizing her mistake.
"No, absolutely not! I can't drag all of this back to Brooklyn, it's just not going to happen." Archie insists, shaking his head dramatically. "You're just going to have to live with Aunt Ronnie forever, Jules. Maybe you can visit us for the holidays."
Juliette giggles, clearly unaware of what her parents are saying, waving slightly when they finally leave, though not making a big deal out of it like Veronica had worried would happen.
Their evening together goes better than Veronica had thought it would - Juliette is actually a pretty calm baby and eats the mashed apples like a champion, only getting a little on the grungy old t-shirt she had thrown on, and doesn't seem to care about anything else as long as Dora the Explorer is lighting up the screen of her large television (she, personally, learns she's not a Dora fan, learns that Dora has a hideous haircut and doesn't leave any time for responses when she asks questions - what a bitch). By eight o'clock, Juliette has been bathed and is in her pajamas, sitting on Veronica's lap as she reads the small girl a little bit of Pride and Prejudice, using various voices to keep the small girl entertained (Veronica had looked at the other books, ruling that they were all kind of terrible, and decided that it was never too early to be exposed to good literature).
She falls asleep during the first few chapters, though Veronica keeps reading, more for her own sake than for Juliette's, the small girl sleeping in her arms, drooling slightly on the tank top she had thrown on hastily after Juliette completely doused her previous outfit.
It's ten o'clock when Veronica finally stops her reading, laying Juliette carefully down in the travel crib and laying a soft blue blanket over the small girl (it doesn't escape her that the blanket was a gift from Jughead, who had said something about security and comfort when Betty opened it).
Eleven o'clock comes and goes quickly, with Veronica watching Breakfast at Tiffany's on low-volume in the living room, an eye on the baby monitor as she constantly checks her phone, waiting for some sort of update from Betty and Archie, waiting for some sort of confirmation that traffic had been bad but they were still on their way.
By 11:30, Veronica begins calling them, Betty and then Archie, listening as the phone rings six times before sending her to voicemail (Archie does it all the time, always having his phone on silent, always losing it at inopportune times, but Betty always answers by the third ring).
At midnight, she calls Jughead, telling herself that his event is likely over and maybe he's heard something from Betty and Archie, maybe they decided to pick their daughter up in the morning or-
"Veronica?" His voice is soft and scratchy, sounding as if he can’t believe she’s calling, as if he thinks he might still be dreaming. “Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re the kind of person who calls people at this kind of hour.”
The second part of his statement is slurred together, muttered as if he’s on the verge of falling back asleep, so instead of retorting to his statement, she decides to bluntly ask her questions.
“Have you heard from Archie and Betty lately? Like, have they called you recently?” There’s a slight twinge of hysteria in her tone, something she wants to blame on exhaustion, though she knows is fear, desperately hoping that there’s been some sort of miscommunication.
“No, not since they asked me to babysit this morning,” Jughead replies, though it’s clear that he’s waking up a little, trying to think about if he’s heard from them since. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“It’s - no, probably not, but Betty thought they were going to be back from that concert at eleven and, well, they haven’t answered their phones and-” She’s panicking, on the verge of hyperventilating, her mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
“Veronica, take a deep breath,” Jughead’s voice is calm and soothing, though she can hear rustling in the background, likely him getting out of bed to turn on the lights, “I’ll call around some places and will be at your apartment soon.”
Part of her wants to insist that he doesn’t come, that she’s over-reacting and everything is going to be fine, but she doesn’t.
“Thanks Jug,” she breathes evenly, taking a deep breath, mentally allowing herself to think this is perhaps the only time living in close proximity to Jughead has done her any sort of good. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
She hangs up the phone hesitantly, but when it starts ringing a few seconds later, realizes that Jughead likely came to a conclusion similar to her own, deciding that it would be more comforting to stay on the line, to remind one another that they’re still supporting one another, no matter the circumstances.
“Jug, you called back, great,” she offers a sigh of relief, looking over at the sleeping baby, her hand shaking slightly, "because I was actually about to call you-"
“Actually, Miss. Lodge, this is Detective Weatherbee. I’m afraid there has been an accident.” A deep voice interrupts her, sending her stomach sinking as she drops the phone quickly, unable to process the words the older man has said, unable to think about anything.