“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs. “It’s
Sherlock hurried down the stairs as quickly as he could.
“Ah, (y/n). Finally. John and Mary are preparing dinner upstairs and I’ll be
heading out for a bit.”
“Sherlock!” You said, exasperated. “You promised you’d stay.
Even if you had a case. It’s Christmas for Christ’s sake.”
“I hate Christmas.” He said with a sneer. “It brings about
carolers and holiday cheer.”
“Oh, Sherlock. Promise me you’ll still come home for dinner
“Food is for the weak and I told everyone not to get me
anything. I also did not get anything for anyone else…” He said trailing off.
“Fine. I promise I’ll be home for dinner and presents.” He
said rolling his eyes. “Even if I don’t eat and I don’t have presents.”
“Good boy.” You said smiling brightly. You bounced into the
building away from the cold, chilling air of London. Sherlock moved past you
and into the freezing air.
“I’m not a boy (y/n). I’m a man. A very smart one at that.” He
said quickly, as if in a rush, which to be honest he probably was. He then
briskly walked away. Mrs. Hudson gave you a sad smile.
“Sorry about him dear. That’s Sherlock though. Always
dashing about. Anyhow, might you come up for a spot of tea? John and Mary’s
food smells so delicious.”
You smiled kindly at her, “Of course, Mrs. Hudson. Thank
“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock’s loud voice rang from downstairs.
“I’m back for Christmas dinner.” He said in a disgusted tone you could tell he
wasn’t really trying to hide. He walked upstairs quickly, taking the steps two
at a time. He walked past you hastily, using his coat to conceal something that
he was carrying. “Mrs. Hudson, John, (y/n) don’t wait up. I’ll be in my room
wrapping things up. I’ll be back in a wink.” He said winking at you. You
blushed profusely. Trying to cover it up, you said, “Shall we start eating?”
“Of course.” John said with a happy smile.
“Mary, the pie looks delicious.” You said to her.
“Oh, I didn’t make it. John did. He’s a great baker.” She
said bragging slightly about her wonderful husband.
“Well then John, it looks simply divine.” You said excited
to dig in to the wonderful looking food.
Time Skip – After Dinner
“Oh, the meal was so scrumptious.” Mrs. Hudson commented, a
little bit sleepy from the meal.
“It was.” You said, a
bit sleepy yourself. “It was too bad Sherlock didn’t eat anything.” You said
clearing the last of the plates from the table. As if on cue Sherlock emerged
from his room.
“Time for presents.” He said lazily, as if bored with the
whole affair and idea of Christmas. Little did you know, inside he was having a
silent panic attack. He secretly slipped something under the tree.
“Ok.” You said giddily, smiling like a child. “I’m excited
to see what you got me Mr. Holmes.” You said nudging him in the side.
“Nothing.” He responded. “I told you earlier that I didn’t
get anyone anything.”
You looked down, slightly saddened by this sentence. Your
Christmas cheer was being ruined by Sherlock.
“You know you don’t have to be such a spoilsport.”
“I actually do.”
“The idea of buying people presents gives some people
anxiety. Anxiety about not getting the right thing. In fact, it is
scientifically proven that people have more stress around the holidays.” He
said with a completely straight face.
“Really Sherlock? You don’t buy people presents because
you’re afraid you’ll get the wrong thing?”
“That is what I said, yes.” He said rolling his eyes.
“Sherlock… We’re your friends. We’ll be happy with anything
you give us.”
“Really?” He said raising an eyebrow. “Last Christmas John
said he loved my gift. He lied. I read his body language. He was not at all
pleased with my gift. I was given a mental talent for reading people and it is
a blessing and a curse. Let me ask you something, (y/n). Do you sometimes wish
I were a normal person? That I’m unable to read people like a book?”
Without missing a heartbeat, you answered his question
honestly, “No. You are perfect. If you weren’t the way you were you would never
have met me. You never would have been ‘The Great Sherlock Holmes’, and I never
would have come to you with my case.”
He clasped his hands together, thinking deeply. “Hmm… You’re
“As I always am.” You said.
“Not always.” He corrected quickly.
You laughed. John and Mary came out of the kitchen. “What’s
so funny?” John asked.
“Nothing, nothing.” You said. “Let’s go. I can’t possibly
wait any longer. I can feel the presents calling to me.”
“Presents don’t talk.” Sherlock mentioned quietly.
“They do in my mind palace.” You said, teasing him.
He sighed tiredly, “Let’s just get on with the presents.”
John cleared his throat. “Ok then. Let’s see, first
present.” He picked up a box with green wrapping. He said out loud, “For Mary
and John, from (y/n).” You smiled as they unwrapped it together. They pulled
out a small onesie.
“It’s for the baby.” You said smiling brightly. “Do you guys
Mary turned to you. “Oh, (y/n). We love it!” She came over
to hug you.
John said, “Thank you (y/n). It’s a wonderful gift.”
You picked the next box. “For Sherlock, from John and Mary.”
You smiled at the couple as you unwrapped the present for Sherlock. You pulled
out a hat. You laughed. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked at the hat in
disgust. You smiled at Mary, “Thanks guys.” You looked at John and mouthed,
“I’ll make him wear it.” The next present was for Mrs. Hudson, from John and
Mary. It was a nice pink shawl. John and Mary had given you a nice coat that
matched Sherlock’s. The presents from John and Mary were all wonderful. Next,
it was your turn to give everyone presents. You had already given John and Mary
their present so you gave Mrs. Hudson hers. Sher pulled out a blouse, a skirt,
and a pair of heels all matching the same royal blue color. “Thank you, dear.” She
said smiling at you.
“Of course, Mrs. Hudson.” You said, matching her smile. Then
you handed Sherlock his present. He opened it and was surprised to see a brand
new blue scarf.
“Thank you very much, (y/n).” He said looking over at you.
You smiled at him, “Anything for you, Sherlock.”
Mrs. Hudson seemed to be ready to bounce out of her seat.
Sher quickly handed everyone their presents. Your gift was a nice jumper. “Mrs.
Hudson, did you knit this all by yourself?” You inquired.
“Yes I did.” She said quite proudly. Sherlock’s was a fancy
“Mrs. Hudson, where did you get this?” He asked.
“Oh, it was from a real fancy shop. I know you have a lot of
suits, but this one just seemed to pop to me. It would look perfect on you. I
mean you have all black suits; you never wear blue. I thought it would look
real nice on you.”
“Thank you. I like it.” He said cautiously, as if his words
might offend her. Everyone looked around. There were no more presents to be
opened. Everyone looked expectantly at Sherlock. They didn’t seem surprised,
however. They soon all packed up and left, save for Mrs. Hudson, who had gone
upstairs. You started to clean up the trash on the ground from the presents.
Sherlock watched you carefully, studying you. You had finished clearing all of
the wrapping paper from around the tree when a little twinkle from under the
tree caught your eye. You reached a hand under the tree and felt a box. You
pulled it out. It was a small box covered with shiny silver wrapping paper.
Carefully you turned it over, ‘To my dear (y/n), from your Sherlock,’ it said
in fancy writing on the wrapping paper. You turned to Sherlock and he gave you
a smile. “I didn’t want you to open it in front of everyone.” He said smirking
at your surprised face.
“Here, I thought you were a pompous jackass who was too good
to get anyone anything.” You commented, joking lightly. Sherlock only rolled
“Open it.” He said. “Before I change my mind and return it.”
“Now I know what you meant when you said you were in your
room, ‘wrapping things up’. You meant it literally, that you actually were
‘wrapping something up’. Gosh, you are clever.”
“I know.” He said, sarcastically. “Now open it.”
You excitedly ripped off the wrapping paper. Inside was a
black square velvet box. You gasped in surprise. It was from Tiffany’s. You
traced your fingers along the velvet on the outside of the box. “What is it?”
You asked Sherlock, looking over at him. He only smiled mysteriously.
“Open it and see.”
You opened the box to see the diamond necklace you had been
drooling over for a long time every time you passed the window of Tiffany’s.
“Sherlock! You didn’t have to get me this.”
“I actually did. Did you think I wouldn’t notice how every
day when we walked past the store you looked longingly and lovingly at this
necklace. I read John, I can read you too.”
“Sherlock! This is just too much. I-I” You were at a loss
for words. You looked down at the box and noticed there was another, much
smaller, box inside. You picked it up. “Sherlock… What’s this?”
He stayed silent. So you took the box carefully in your
hands and opened it up. Inside was a beautiful diamond ring. You gasped. “Oh
my. Oh my gosh.” You looked up at Sherlock. He smiled mysteriously.
“I see no need to get on one knee and all so I’ll just say
it. Will you (y/n) (y/l/n) the most beautiful and clever and kind and funny
person I have ever met and also my favorite human being in this entire wretched
world, agree to be my wife?”
“Yes, Sherlock. Yes of course I’ll be your wife.” You stood
up to hug him and as you hugged you noticed a small green plant hanging on top
of Sherlock’s head. You smiled. As you pulled apart from the hug you pecked
Sherlock on the lips.
“What was that for?” He questioned.
“Tradition.” You responded with a smirk.
“I hate tradition.”
“Is there anything you don’t hate?”
“I don’t hate you.”
You smiled softly. “Hey, don’t get soft on me now Mr.
Summary: In which everyone gets a name tattoo of their soulmate on their wrist when they turn eighteen but Y/N doesn’t believe in it and wants hers covered up by the male tattoo artists whose shop is right down the street
Summary: In which a bet leads Bucky to have to catch you every day for a week, no matter what.
Pairing: Bucky x Reader
Word Count: 969
A/N: This fic is inspired by this moment in Brooklyn Nine Nine (where Terry drops his coffee mug in order to catch Jake).
There are going to be multiple parts to this fic and I hope you guys are as excited as me. A lot of fluff is going to ensue from here on out.
Special thanks to @avengerstories for editing this for me. You are the very best.
You are walking past the living room when you notice that someone is in there. Abandoning your quest for a sandwich, you enter the room and find Bucky with his metal arm under one of the couch cushions. You don’t even have to ask what he’s looking for. “Lost your earphones again, huh?”
“I didn’t lose them,” he mutters while dropping down to the floor to look under the sofa. “They’ve just been misplaced.”
You cross your arms over your chest and chuckle. “If you say so.”
Bucky abruptly stands up from his position on the floor and fixes you with a hard glare. Most people would probably cower under the scrutiny, but not you. You and Bucky have been butting heads for eight months; a rivalry that began the moment you joined forces with the Avengers. Those eight months have been filled with nonstop arguments, snide remarks, and an overabundance of scowls pointed in each other’s direction.
“ In my eyes, she is beautiful. I love her. I am happy and tickled and bursting with pride that she would agree to be my wife. And I want us to live as closely as two people can, for the time that remains to us on earth.”
Ok, so @magicaldestiny was SO KIND to let me off the hook for her birthday fic while I was drowning in Spacedogs stories. So I would like to thank her for that and say….LOOK! I remembered to do the thing, months later. Please forgive the lateness - as well as how incredibly sappy this is m’dear.
Will pulled the blanket around him,
trying to control the shivers that wracked his body. This was worse than the cliff - worse than the sound of his skull rattling as
Jack screamed for Hannibal to stop the saw. Will let himself loll to the side, head
thumping weakly on the arm of the sofa. Through half-closed eyes, Will saw
calf-leather loafers shuffling toward him.
“If you were
planning to kill me again, now would be a great time,” Will moaned, letting his
eyes fall closed. He heard the clink of a tray as it settled on the coffee
table before he felt himself being pulled upright and settled against a warm, solid mass.
dream of killing you,” Hannibal murmured in Will’s ear, offering him a steaming
cup of tea. “Unless
you wipe your nose on my hand loomed throw again.”
for that.” The tea smelled of ginger, Will gulped it down.
yet the stain remains.”
“You know you
actually gutted me, right? Like, my actual innards spilled out.”
that more than you’ll ever know.” Hannibal sighed, pressing a kiss behind
Will’s ear. “I’m
sure the floors had to be refinished. They were original to the house.”
“If I wasn’t
three seconds from dying, I’d smack you.”
ridiculous, Will. You’ve got hours before dehydration would even seriously
threaten you.” Hannibal held up a bowl of soup and made Will swallow a few
spoonfuls. “There, I’ve just bought you another half hour, at least.”
ever talk to you about bedside manor?”
smirked. “I’ve never had any complaints.”
“Sex puns? When I’m too weak to defend myself? Have you no mercy?”
“None.” Hannibal fed Will a few more swallows of soup before setting the bowl on the
table. “Now, how shall we wait out this illness? I could read to you? Perhaps
his mouth, then snapped it shut. Hannibal frowned.
want to do it.”
“I would have
thought after the incident in Pallentine Chapel, you’d know there is very
little I’m not willing to do to and for you.”
“For the last
time, if I had known that goddamn nun was watching us, I wouldn’t have-”
If he was honest, that would be a lie. His first memory is something mundane like his mother singing to him or watching TV with his father. But what he remembers most, brightest, strongest is this: standing on the ledge of his family’s second-story apartment balcony, gazing down at the little section of the tiny backyard Mrs. Turner has used for her garden (bushes grown up high, hopefully high enough) taking a breath, closing his eyes and leaping.
He remembers flying.
That glorious moment of weightlessness fighting gravity, when he was moving faster than light, faster than sound, the fastest thing on this planet. He was invincible.
He doesn’t remember hitting the ground, but he remembers rolling off his broken arm to stare up at the blue blue sky and thinking someday it would be his. Someday he’d never have to land.
(”He fell,” his little sister Jeanette insists with a pout when his mother comes home and panics at not finding Jim where he should be. He can hear them through the window. “He fell, Mama.”
His mama looks over the balcony and screeches, going back inside. Jeanette stares at Jim through the bars of the railing. “I didn’t fall,” he tries to say, but he’s six and the pain is finally catching up to him. He can’t feel his arm. He cries when his mother picks him up.)
i-had-a-halo-once said: Can you do one where the reader was Mary’s best friend, and they had been inseparable (she was Rosie’s godmother/aunt) since the day they met (and she met Sherlock and John the same time Mary did and was with Mary throughout it all)? And when Mary dies, the reader blames Sherlock and John for everything and wants nothing to do with them anymore (she won’t answer their calls, when they come around she sends people to tell them to go away, etc), and she’s slowly spiraling in to self-loathing for not being able to save Mary, and becoming more and more rash and reckless, and she’s constantly getting worse, and so when John and Sherlock discover Mary’s video, it’s Mary telling them to save the reader (not John), otherwise the reader will get herself killed? Fluffy ending please! (Sorry if this is too detailed XD)
A/N: It’s okay. I’m so sorry this has taken so long! I’ve been too busy to have time to write so here it is!
PS: I had to throw a Newt Scamander quote in there.
Warnings: attempted suicide.
Save Y/N Y/LN.
That was what Mary said on the video. But saving you was a problem; you were long gone. In fact, you left when she did. You first met Mary when John introduced you. At first, you were sceptical of the woman but eventually you grew to love her and became very close friends. You became Rosie’s godmother and found it in your heart to forgive her when she lied about who she was. Then she passed…
You couldn’t forgive Sherlock or John, despite it not being their fault. You didn’t sleep or eat and your grief was driving you insane. It took John a while to forgive Sherlock but eventually he did. Molly and Mrs Hudson had come to see you but you rarely spoke when they did. The only thing you did tell them was to tell Sherlock and John to stay away. This hurt the two as they didn’t want to tell the detective and doctor to stay away.
However, the person you blamed the most was yourself. Your self-loathing over powered your hatred for John and Sherlock. You began to hate your very existence. You became more reckless and troublesome. You rarely went out but when you did, you were not cautious whatsoever. You refused to look both ways when crossing the street, nor did you cross at pedestrian crossings. Surprisingly, you hadn’t been knocked down. You did, however, get in a fight with a couple of chavs outside a pub when you decided to drown your sorrows one night.
News had travelled quickly to the Baker Street Boys after Molly had visited you only to reveal that you’d gone missing. There was a note stating your purpose of your departure. The writing was in an untidy scrawl. It read:
To whoever reads this,
I can’t take it anymore.
John, Molly, Sherlock, and Mrs Hudson had split up across the vast city of London to find you. Sherlock had set the homeless network on the case to track you down. He’d even asked for Mycroft’s assistance and he never did that. He was taking the matter very seriously and it was personal.
Coincidently, they’d been watching Mary’s video shortly before Molly burst through the door bearing bad news. Mary had also stated that Sherlock and John should go to Hell so you’d come to them. However, the only Hell they were going through was what you were putting on them. Besides, John himself was still in a mess. His wife had died after all.
They’d all, with the exception of Sherlock, gone to search places that you were most likely to go but they were all deserted. Sherlock had gone to the more remote places that he’d known you’d been to before only once. He knew you. He knew you’d go somewhere that you wouldn’t be expected to go. He also knew you’d use a gun as he knew you’d want something quick and something that you couldn’t regret halfway through, like an overdose where you could question what you’d done after you’d swallowed the pills. He could find you and he knew he would eventually but was only the case of whether you’d pulled the trigger…
He found you on the banks of the Thames. It was in the cover of darkness so no one saw you. Sherlock found you purely by accident. He was walking down the Thames when he heard crying from below. He ran down the stairs to find you. You clutched the gun in your trembling hands as tears streamed down your face. It was the first time you cried and let it all out. It was the only time you had been truly afraid.
“Get away from me!” You screamed at Sherlock as he approached you.
“Y/N, please,” The man replied.
“No! It’s your fault she’s dead! It should’ve been you when the shot was fired! John should’ve protected her!” You fell to your knees and dropped the gun. “I should’ve protected her. I should’ve…”
“No.” Sherlock ran and kneeled beside you. “It’s my fault and I will take that to my grave. However, we must move on. Dwelling on our actions hurts us more than the cause itself. My philosophy is, that if you worry, you suffer twice.”
“But I can’t stop dwelling! I wish I was you, Sherlock. You can just delete anything from your mind whenever you choose.”
“Not certain things.”
“Yes but…” You couldn’t finish. You just felt exhausted. Tired of life and just everything.
“Y/N, you can’t let this weigh heavily upon your mind. Forgetting is not an option. That is impossible. Mary wouldn’t want you to be hurt so much.”
You nodded. “But I cant live like this.”
He sighed. “I can’t force you to continue. Please consider what I’ve said and know that we will all miss you if life without Mary isn’t enough, then it will be less bearable with you gone.” He kissed you on the forehead before leaving.
You sat for around an hour contemplating. However, you thought of everyone else and knew that it wasn’t fair on them, like Sherlock said. You went to pick up the gun you had discarded but it was already gone. You smiled slightly in the fact that someone cared for you.
You opened the door of 221B. You were drenched as it had started raining on the way home. Mrs Hudson was downstairs but you did not want to disturb her. The warmth of the flat greeted you. Sherlock was playing the violin whereas John was sat on his laptop. They turned to look at you when you walked in. John approached you.
“I forgive you,” You wept. “I’m sorry.”
John wrapped his arms around your waist. “Shh,” He whispered. “It’s okay.”
Sherlock watched. It was harrowing to see you in this way but he was glad you came back. With him, John, and the rest of the crew, you would get better. They’d make sure of it.
“Is she worth it?” The commanding voice broke Jughead out of
his heat induced daze. He didn’t even flick his eyes away from the courtyard
before addressing the speaker.
“Whoever you’re staring at out there. Is she worth the
sentence when she reports you for being a peeping tom? In the olden days they
burnt your eyes out with a red hot poker – I can’t imagine anybody is worth that,” Veronica prattled as she hung her
coat and hat on the rack by the door. “I’m all for window shopping but never
with such extreme consequences.” Jughead’s lips lifted in a subtle smile at her
words. He’d make sure he settled his features back into their disapproving nonchalance
by the time she rounded the chair to face him.
“I’m not staring at anyone; I’m impartially observing the
nature of the unguarded home occupant,” Jughead retorted wryly, lifting his
heavy eyes to meet hers. She was wearing pale blue today, white belt cinching in
her already slender waist where her hands lay accusingly. Her lips were painted
a light red and her dark hair fell in their usual ringlets about her shoulders.
Jughead shook his head imperceptibly – he should have guessed that Veronica
Lodge didn’t sweat, even in over one hundred degree heat.
“That’s what they all say,” she replied, knowing full well that
they didn’t. “And before you know it you’ll be watching the world through bars
instead.” He rolled his eyes at her overdramatics and pursed lips, watching as
Miss Legs brushed out her waves in the reflection of a serving tray propped up
against her sink. Veronica rummaged through her handbag, pulling out a small
case and snapping it open to reveal a thermometer. She wedged it hastily between
Jughead’s slightly parted lips before he had a chance to return any sardonic
“I’ve told you before not to sleep in that chair, at least a
dozen times. You’ve already got this,” she paused, tapping a painted nail
against his cast, “I really don’t think, having known you, you’d appreciate a
back brace,” she said, arching a dark eyebrow. Jughead watched her breeze through
his apartment, bypassing the mess and finding whatever she wanted with little
fuss. Veronica shook out the clean bed sheet, spreading it over the temporarily
set up table shoved unceremoniously against the furthest wall from the window,
shielded partially by the chimney breast. “I knew a guy, once – he was a
patient of mine. Never saw him outside of his office, always hunched over that
desk of his, even scheduled our appointments there. Some kind of financial
advisor, I think. Couldn’t recall a time I saw him look into another person’s
eyes while talking to them. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on him that he
was hiding from something,” she recalled, shaking her head as she plumped a
pillow, tugging at the corners of the case.
“Do you have a point?” Jughead asked around the thermometer.
Veronica worked mechanically, pulling a multitude of bottles out of her
apparently bottomless bag.
“Would you like to know what happened to him?” she asked, striding
over to pinch the device from his mouth and check the reading. Jughead licked
his dry lips.
“This isn’t a story about the in-too-deep business man who
throws himself out the tenth story window, is it?” he enquired dryly. Veronica
huffed, something she seemed to do a lot in Jughead’s experience. He had thought that perhaps it was just him
that incited such a disgruntled reaction and took a little sick pleasure in the
“No. He’s still there,”
she revealed. Jughead looked at her with a furrowed brow, noting the way she
regarded him as if she had just imparted a great discovery. With a hand resting
on the back of his chair she rolled her eyes his continued staring. “I don’t want
to come back one day and find the dry bones of the once great Jughead Jones, by this window where I left him.” Jughead
scoffed as he turned back to the window in what he was aware was ironic defence.
Mr Caretaker had ventured downstairs, door thudding with a little too much
force before he knelt by his bed of roses. Jughead watched the way he stabbed
at the soil with his garden fork, prongs repeatedly piercing the dirt.
“You have a hormone deficiency.” Veronica’s statement
startled him. He turned back to find her staring between him and the thermometer.
“You can tell that from my temperature?” he questioned
disbelievingly. Veronica was good at her job, but not that good.
“Weeks spent staring at those sunbathing beauties and not one
of them has managed to raise it by a degree,” she commented flippantly as she
shook the stick to cool it down. Jughead began to shift in his seat, preparing
for the next part of their appointment.
“I told you I wasn’t staring at them. And even if I was they
hold little interest for me,” he added, a defensive note creeping into his
usually flat tone. Veronica grabbed him under the arm, hoisting him up expertly
before helping him hobble to the table. Shedding his shirt, Jughead lay across
“Are you lonely, Jughead?” she asked with a genuine curiosity
that made Jughead’s jaw clench. He’d long gotten over her unprofessional penchant
for calling him ‘Jughead’ rather than ‘Mr Jones’.
“Are you unfulfilled, Veronica?” he fired back, eyes still
hard and focused on the peeling corner of the wallpaper in front of him. She
slapped the cold massaging lotion on his back a shade harder than necessary,
making him wince.
It was a badly kept secret that Veronica Lodge did not need
to be an insurance company nurse. Barely concealed purls, perfectly manicured
fingers, and Jughead had been around enough designer clothes in the past few
months to know that what Veronica wore would not be described as cheap. And yet
here she was, hands pushing out the tight knots in his back, sore from lack of
movement and less than advisable sleeping positions. Her family money appeared
to be a desirable asset but it just wasn’t enough to get her through the
endless days. Jughead knew that ‘lacking’ feeling well.
“You thought anymore about her?” Veronica asked, steering the
conversation back to him.
“Betty Cooper,” Jughead sighed, resting his chin on the backs
of his laced fingers. Veronica laughed as she worked his back.
“Betty Cooper,” she repeated. Veronica knew well enough who
she was; if she had deigned to be a society girl then their circles wouldn’t be
too different. Saying that name in the rundown apartment of a photojournalist
on this side of town wouldn’t have even occurred to her, however, if he hadn’t already
let it slip himself a few weeks prior.
“She’s trouble,” Jughead remarked, cryptically.
“I don’t think those two things are compatible,” Veronica
quipped, thumbs pressing against the grooves in his spine and making him grunt.
“Blonde hair, pink lips… what’s not to like?”
“She’s not the girl for me. She’s too perfect,” he said,
hoping the sadness in his voice wasn’t as apparent to Veronica as it was to
“‘Too perfect’. What’s ‘too perfect’?”
“She’ll want to get married.”
“And what’s so wrong with that? I think a little married life
will do you good,” Jughead heard for the second time that morning, thoughts
drifting back to Mr Caretaker – he wondered if his roses were still living.
“I don’t think the two things are compatible,” he repeated
her words from earlier, knowing she would be giving him her signature eye roll
as he spoke. And again for the second time that day the unwelcome image of his
father invaded his mind, this time accompanied by the partially blocked view he
had of his mother leaving their trailer for the last time, garnered from behind
the half closed closet door he’d hidden in.
“Miss Cooper is a well-rounded, pleasant mannered, delightful
young woman,” Veronica listed as if she were reading from a brochure. “And she
gives a better view than anything out that damn window,” she added with her
“Betty Cooper belongs to society. Hell, she is society. I need someone who is
willing to go anywhere, do anything, to chase the story. And love doing it. I’ve
seen the shoes she wears and they are barely suitable for chasing down a cab,”
he mocked. He felt his chest tighten in betrayal as he spouted out words to
“Shoes are merely dressing. You know that underneath them we
all have the same feet, right?”
“In Betty’s case they don’t touch the ground.”
“Then she’ll have no issues with flying.”
Where are you, sweetheart?”
damn dog away from my flowerbeds!”
Jughead’s brow furrowed as they lapsed into silence, eyes
glancing at the carelessly slung copy of Bazaar
magazine without his permission. The world faded to black and white as Betty’s
image grinned back at him from the open pages – she’d been reading it last time
she came to visit; a puff piece done on herself by some tired journalist looking
to escape the monotony of the society pages, she’d informed him. Still, the
photographer had done a decent job of capturing her essence. Her green eyes shone
with something akin to mischief as they stared into his own. Oh, he was well
aware of the effects of that mischief…
“It just won’t work. There’s a rational way to approach the
situation-” Jughead began with a sigh.
“There is no rationality where love is concerned,” Veronica
cut in, dragging a rough towel over his skin. His stomach clenched.
“I just have a bad feeling,” Jughead confessed, not entirely
sure what he was addressing. All he knew was that there’d been a twisting in
the depths of his gut recently, an uncomfortable churning that he wasn’t sure
he knew how to identify. Veronica laughed, shrill and unsympathetic.
“That, my darling, is from sleeping
in this damn chair.”