A Battle of Wits
Description: A battle of wits, a bit of Sherlock-level deductions on both ends
Word count: 509
A/N: ok you guys I am so sorry but I’m not gonna be able to post imagines for the next couple of days, I have a lot going on in school right now so I won’t be able to work on requests or anything. so to make it up to you guys, I’m posting a short drabble that I wrote before I even created this blog. So sorry again, hope you enjoy!
“Cliché,” he muttered under his breath, turning back to his laptop.
“Excuse me?” she demanded. He rolled his eyes as he continued typing. “Please, do explain.”
“Listen,” he starts, closing his laptop lid, “I’ve seen it. There’s at least one in every small town.”
“A tortured artist,” he proclaimed, doing sarcastic jazz hands. “You had a miserable childhood, guessing some daddy issues? Abandonment?”
“Dad and mom, actually, but do go on Sherlock Holmes,” she corrected, leaning back in her seat. He pursed his lips before continuing.
“Because your life is so sad you created an outlet for yourself, an anchor of sorts where you can channel all of your negative emotions. Lo and behold you just so happen to have a knack for art, and thus begins your journey as a tortured artist.” He finished with a small smirk as he imitated what she had done before and leaned back into his seat, crossing his arms.
“Very good,” she drawled, leaning against the table. “You got me spot on.” He nodded nonchalantly. “Although I must say this entire tangent was very hypocritical.”
“Hypocritical?” he questioned, also leaning in.
“Oh yes, you see you’re quite the cliché yourself. The tragic writer.”
“Tragic writer?” he mused, taking a bite of his sundae. “Explain, please.”
“You, too, had a rough childhood. Not abandonment like me, though. No, your family had money issues. Mommy was never around so daddy had to do all the work, and he wasn’t the most responsible and reliable parent. You’re the oldest, so you take it upon yourself to act as a parental figure for your younger siblings. However, you quickly learn that it is much too difficult for you, not even a legal adult yet, to take care of yourself and others. You come to the decision that your family is better off without you. One less mouth to feed, one less occupied bed, one less person to buy necessities for. You run away and take care of yourself. You try your hardest to find a job, and you eventually find one at some run-down place where it’s not busy enough for anyone to give a damn about your age. You work as hard as you can, saving up as much money as possible until finally you made enough. For months you’ve been dying to buy yourself a laptop, a place where you can create and store your writing. You buy it and immediately start writing, isolating yourself from the world and finding solace and comfort in your own writing, where you can play god over any character you create. This eventually turns you into quite the brooding guy, hence the sardonic humor and lack of close friends.” She finished her analysis with a smirk and sipped on her milkshake, eyebrows raised. His mouth was slightly agape.
“Just one sibling,” he mumbled.
“What was that?”
“I said,” he spoke up, “just one sibling. You said siblings. With an s. Plural. I just have one.” She shrugged, unbothered by his correction.
“I’m not Sherlock Holmes, Jughead.”