Prompt: Jughead x Reader keeping their relationship a secret, they just don’t want other people to know, but one of them accidentally slips.
A/N: I changed it a bit but hope you liked it!!! Requests are welcome!
Slip Up (Jughead x Reader)
You and Jughead have been a thing since he questioned you about Jason’s death for his novel. You didn’t have any useful information but you two got along quite well.
After the interview, he asked if you wanted to grab a milkshake at Pop’s. You guys have been dating since.
The only thing is that no one knew as you both liked the privacy and Jug didn’t want anyone picking on you for dating him. Of course you had called him crazy and that you didn’t care what those idiots thought.
Three months into the relationship and you both were starting to slip up causing everyone to question what exactly was going on.
He supposes the business of being the spider in the middle of a vast web keeps her busy, keeps her entertained the same way his cases does him. But then, she doesn’t need the texts to know about his comings and goings. John’s blog does that well enough, keeps the world (and by extension her) abreast of every case with breathless effusion.
After all, he’s had a year with her. Surely that was enough conversation to last them both for months. Years before their next holiday.
His fingers twitch at the idea. Grasping for a phantom cigarette.
He picks up his mobile. Stares at it. Stares at the Montenegrin number that had appeared on its screen a month ago. His thumb hovers over the number, and he taps in a text.
“Bored. Last case was dull. It was actually the butler.”
He stares at the three lines. Idiotic. Deletes it.
He is about to put his phone away when something occurs to him.
He does not assign a name to the Montenegrin number. But he does assign it a ringtone.
Three cases, two of them murder. One of them a supremely lucky chicken. The murders will make it onto his blog. Mary will keep John from writing about the chicken.
Mary is unbelievably pregnant at this point. John stays close to home. Sherlock is bored. He stares at his ceiling, at the gunshots in the wall, and there is a phantom ache in his shoulder as he picks up his phone.
“Stormy in Montenegro this time of year.”
Before he can think about, before he can second guess himself, he presses send.
The progress bar is practically gone before he’s done. ‘Delivered’, the little grey letters inform him.
His phone remains silent.
Mary is three days past due. Sherlock cannot help but think of how it has been… six months and fourteen days since the last text he received from that number in Montenegro. No words, just a tiny hand and an even tinier bundle of wrinkles and dark hair, a small pink mouth seeking a darker pink breast.
His fingers twitch. He does not pull up the picture. He doesn’t need to. He can recall it with perfect clarity in his mind palace.
Sherlock wonders about whether John or Mary will be more likely to wake up for midnight feedings. He considers the time difference.
He reaches for the breast pocket of his dressing gown, takes out his phone.
“I’m not hungry.”
The little mocking grey words again. 'Delivered.’
He does not text her when Mary gives birth, does not tell her about the coat that has been dry cleaned. No doubt she would laugh at that. He remains silent. As silent as she has been.
He does not tell her that he misses John because the baby takes up his time and Mary’s. He does not tell her about the dog. Or the cases. He does not text her for months. He wonders if she is annoyed by this. Or if she even notices. Midnight feedings and criminal enterprises kept one busy, he supposes, peevishly.
He leaves Rosie’s christening, and is walking for a cab, when the sigh issues from his mobile, breathless and throaty.
He keeps his hand out of his pocket, hails a cab. He makes it 42 seconds before he looks down at his mobile.
“I like the new Twitter account.”
He catches himself smiling, then frowns, glaring down at his mobile.
He does not delete the text. Nor does he change the ringtone.
He also does not answer.
It is three days after Mary’s death that he texts her. His hands are shaking and there is a rapidly cooling syringe of cocaine, untouched, next to his tea.
It takes him three tries.
“Tell me you’re both safe.”
He retreats to his mind palace. He offers himself up on his knees to the figment there, stripped bare. Her whips are sharper in his mind than they ever were in real life, because there is no skin to break in his mind palace. Every lash she offers him is a fresh hit of cocaine in his veins, every flagellation a fresh jolt of drugs.