Chapter Text
**
1983, Zhangjiajie, Hunan, China
There’s nothing quite as captivating as the pillar like trees, as tall as Gods, looming over the valleys and streams beneath them. It’s with a heavy heart and tears in his eyes that Jun leaves, feet light on the rocks of the streams, water splashing furiously past as he makes his escape. It’s now or never and Jun chooses now, before anyone can choose for him.
America is calling but Hunan will never be silenced.
**
2009, Riverdale, America
Alex giggled , comfortably lying on his bedroom floor, carpet filthy from his muddy morning yet it’s this that’s captured his attention far more than worms or soil.
His crayons can fly.
Wide-eyed and laughing, the eight year old watched as his colouring pencils floated above him in an uneven circle. He didn’t hear the twist of his bedroom door knob, only aware of his Father’s presence when Jun forced the crayons to fall on his son’s chest.
“Dad!” Alex frowned, sitting up with irritation, “I made them
fly.
”
Jun swallowed nervously. Most parents dread The Talk but most parents don’t have this particular talk to worry about. It didn’t help that Leslie knew nothing about his past and therefore nothing about her son’s abilities . Jun was a simple immigrant, nothing of note in his life bar a Chinese passport and some memories he left behind in Hunan. He’d kept that lie alive for decades and he’d die with it.
Mortal life was better, simpler.
“Ok, son,” he sighed, “let’s have a little chat, just us boys.”
He'd hoped to leave it behind. It was impossible in the mountains but in the American suburbs, it made sense, long days spent in the pharmacy and long evenings in the garden, watching Alex toddle and Leslie paint. Life was like a dream, in the way dreams really are; not perfect, but cosy. He hid the marks that appeared on his skin like veins, messages from his old life, Aunties calling him home but it was worth it.
It was an easy secret at first. Alex liked the idea of keeping something hidden from Mom; a special, strange gift he could share with his Dad alone. Jun came to like it, too, in the way you might love a pet tarantula, both fascinated by it but always aware it could have terrible consequences. He couldn’t deny that seeing his son develop in the same way he did as a boy, in the same way Alex’s ancestors did, wasn’t a beautiful thing to see but as years rolled on and his inquisitive son became ever more curious, being the only one privy to his otherworldly growth was frustrating for them both.
That’s when they often crossed the roads into Greendale.
It was no coincidence Jan found himself on the edge of a magical town, just out of eye sight but close enough to hear the sound of the other paths mortals never get to see. Riverdale’s residents stayed clear of their neighbours but for Jun, Greendale was a lifeline. On many fishing trips and forest treks - according to his wife - he’d take Alex to visit friends and friends of friends, watching fondly as his boy learnt spells and tricks from his witchy peers.
“Remember, Mama can’t know,” he’d say sadly on their way home, “she isn’t like us. It could scare her.”
Alex was good at that. Even as a youngster he knew the less people knew about him, the better.
Perhaps, as wise as he was, Jun should have anticipated nothing as good as what he had - what they had - could last. Surely an elder or a previous life could have warned him of what was to come but maybe the simple happiness of a kind wife, a healthy child, a small, cosy home overshadowed one’s predictive senses.
He’d ran from the dark forces of below, waded through rural Chinese rivers to be splattered down by a 1940 Cadillac.
Alex can’t remember that day. If he allows himself he can hear his Mama’s voice, shaking, begin to speak, but whenever that happens he catches the memory and sends it back to the depths of his mind. It’s best not to remember him, as going back means coming forwards, and each stepping stone of misery has to be re-lived - the death of his Father and best friend, his Mama’s sickness, the loss of the house, his mentor in this strange and twisted life he finds himself in gone - sometimes it’s too much to bear.
Still, he can’t bring himself to get rid of everything.
There are books - story books - in an old wooden chest, something they salvaged before the big downsize into a rougher part of the South Side. Mom didn’t care much for his Dad’s ‘funny little ways’, letting him get on with it, with his tales of spells and snakes and monsters. It was a harmless way for him to bond with his boy. The books, old and new, and herbs and resin, from myrrh to dragon’s blood, sit dusty and unloved in a crate under Alex’s bed.
He doesn’t think about them.
**
Present Day
The North Side is trash.
They say the southside, with it’s alcoholics and noisy, run down apartments is worth destroying but if there’s one thing Sweet Pea’s learnt since having to spend the majority of his time north side, it’s that the north side is just a painting. It looks pleasant, uncomplicated, and people like pleasant, uncomplicated things, but that’s just it. It looks pleasant. Yet everyone - mother, father and child - spend their entire time looking for ways to denigrate their neighbour.
The South Side might be noisy, filthy and broken, but it was held together by an unbreakable bond between its people, a motto of people need people and we look after our own.
Toni’s right. The jackets aren’t worth a fight, even if Jones disagrees, preening about in his new leather skin and acting as if he invented the Serpents. Sweet Pea doesn’t need a jacket to know who he is. It’s faintly amusing to watch Jughead march with all the indignation and righteous of a misguided god, chin held high at all times.
If he only he knew how fragile he, and all of them, truly are.
Sweet Pea tries not to think about it, but sometimes, the vault is loose, and there’s a very distinctive voice that agrees with him: You’re not fragile. You could stop him with a click of your fingers .
That makes him laugh out loud, the idea of Jughead’s face, furious, yet his feet frozen to the ground.
“Want to… share?” Toni frowns, eyes wide, as if he’s slightly insane. That’s when he realises he’s at school, surrounded by people who can’t hear the inner workings of his brain, his ancestor’s voices mocking the mortals nearby.
He shrugs with confidence. Do anything with confidence and regardless of how unusual it may be, people will allow it.
Jughead continues with his rant about how terrible Riverdale High, with it’s clean floors and high pass rates, is. Never mind being enough to tempt a saint, it’s enough to tempt the Devil and the Devil doesn’t need much temptation, Sweet Pea eye-rolling and barely aware of his intentions before they happen, the roll of his eyes sending Jughead on a backwards swoop, falling over his own feet.
He’s not the only one laughing at that, the girls giggling and the hero of every hour, Mr. Archie Andrews, leaning down to help his confused, red-faced best friend.
“What the hell…,” Jughead trails off, but Sweet Pea doesn’t much care for his white boy nonsense today, turning on his heel for his useless French lesson before Jughead can inspire him to cause any more havoc.
It’s not that he doesn’t miss the jacket. They all know how important, how sacred that jacket is, an act and display of defiance in a world that would shatter and scatter them if they could. It’s heavy, the leather material thick and unforgiving, yet it’s the only item of clothing he cares for. That’s why Jughead’s wrong, too, annoyingly wrong, about being profiled. Profiling someone is assuming someone’s behaviour based on traits without it being necessarily accurate, but Serpents? They are violent. They’re furious. It’s not profiling when it’s your every intention to warn people that you’ll slit their throats if they cross you.
French is, mercifully, the last lesson of the day and after that he’s free to find Fangs and head for home, also known as the Whyte Wyrm. The Serpents became family six months after the accident, as Leslie span out, confused and terrified by her son’s ability to smash entire tables, still clueless as to how easy it was for Alex to destroy things. It wasn’t his bodily strength, which of course she couldn’t have known, but his mental strength and that - that was something neither she nor anyone who tried to help him could understand.
That’s how he first met FP Jones.
**
FP Jones was the same back then in many ways, gruff, hardened, eyes often narrowed but with a glint of fire beneath the exterior. He was nothing like the men Alex spent his time around; not like his slight, quiet Father or the wickedly fun Ambrose locked up in the Spellman’s dark home. FP Jones smelt like woodfire and liquor, it hitting Alex’s nostrils the day his Mom marched him into the Whyte Wyrm. He wasn’t afraid.
He’s never been afraid of FP Jones.
“Kid,” the leader addressed him after assuring his Mom he was safe in the hands of some old snake. Alex stood in the middle of a run down pub full of strangers, some interested in his presence and others not, yet the most remarkable and insistent feeling settled within him: he may belong here.
“What?” he had spat, close to sending a table flying and knocking out the man standing before him, beer in hand. He knew that would lead to some serious questions which had unexplainable, difficult answers and with difficulty he fought down his demons, desperate to be heard, to destroy.
His heart might have been broken but his father was still present, somehow.
“Mortals can’t comprehend us, Alex. You mustn't allow them to ever know who you are.”
“I know what happened to your old man,” FP said, straight up, and Alex had tightened his fists, trying desperately to control what could easily out him as different.
“We can help you,” he said reassuringly, confident of that fact, “you can join me and my boys. You know who we are, don’t you?”
You can’t live on the South Side and not know who the unruly Serpents are but Alex had never seen them as an option. Many of the kids at school spoke a big tale about joining the Serpents at 16, the local heroes on motorbikes, but what would he need a gang for? He could hex them all in the blink of an eye. Mortals are dust, disposable, no match for the ancient powers locked inside of him.
Back then, it felt like all the power he had wasn’t a blessing, but a curse. It was heavy and confusing without his Father’s eyes and explanations and Alex was a barely-fifteen year old ball of fire who was terrified of what that meant. His grief was all-consuming, seeping out of every pore, poisoning all the potential he had.
He would never admit it now, but as he stood in front of FP, he felt the tears well in his eyes as he looked up at the new, less impressive father figure he’d have to settle for.
“I know who you are,” he muttered.
“There are rules. There’s some challenges. But we can help you,” FP promised, standing closer to clap a hand on his shoulder. He smelt of alcohol and it made Alex’s nose scrunch in disgust.
“A little appreciation would go a long way,” FP warned, clearly not used to a South Side teenage boy not hero worshipping him.
It was this or the abyss.
“I’ll join.”
**
It took weeks to complete the trials, Alex forcing himself not to use magic, to stand these tests as a mortal. He took the beatings, didn’t place spells on the snake, took the bite, drove wildly on motorcycles and felt the real fear whenever he thought he’d tip off the edge. It felt exhilarating to live as a human and he wondered how they do it when their skin is as dissolvable as paper, their hearts too small and soft to withstand much, but he felt like he belonged.
The emails of condolences, the texts from Greendale friends who he visited in the past as an eager kid started to drop off.
Once FP put the leather jacket on his back, slapping his shoulders and bringing him under arm as he smiled out at his disciples in front of them, Alex was too full of hope for his new family to continue to grieve the one he lost; his Mom was a ghost, a ghost who drank too much red wine, never leaving her chambers.
“Tonight we welcome a new snake,” FP declared proudly to the band of men and occasional woman, the fire beneath them roaring, “just a boy, but a brave one,” he added, Alex feeling pride tickle inside of him as he stood wearing their leather, accepted. There were impressed murmurs, men raising beer to him.
“And!” FP shouted, not ready to push Alex back into the crowd, “a new name, for a new snake. Because he’s a sweet kid,” he grinned, pinching Alex’s cheek playfully, “Sweet Pea.”
“Sweet Pea!” the crowd chorused, and that was that.
**
“Sweets!”
Sweet Pea whips his head round at the shout, grinning at Fangs comes crashing into his chest.
“Bro,” Fangs pants, “your legs are too long. I have to sprint to catch you up with you.”
“Short ass,” Sweet Pea smiles, leading them out into the crisp winter air, “Whyte Wyrm?”
“Duh,” Fangs offers helpfully. Sweet Pea chucks evil glares at any North Sider who dares to be near them, to look at them. He doesn’t want to make friends at Riverdale High. He has all he needs. It’s going well, the privileged snotbags shrivelling under his eyes and making way for the two all-black serpents when Jones comes out of nowhere to spoil the mood.
“I was thinking - ”
“Don’t do that,” Sweet Pea interrupts, Fangs tensing beside them, torn between Sweet Pea’s outright and open mockery of the boss’s son and an acceptance of Jughead’s serpent heritage.
Jughead doesn’t seem to care much, and he certainly doesn’t get the hint.
“We should talk about how to further our cause,” Jones bleats on, “to combat the Principal’s incessant, disgusting profiling of us.”
Sweet Pea bites his tongue, enraged that Jones is still caught up on that. He wonders if he could make himself bleed doing it, taste the metallic tinge of blood in his mouth and once again he curses that Jughead is the blood of FP and therefore untouchable.
“You don’t know what it’s like to be profiled, white boy,” he says instead, both the shorter boys having to walk a little faster to keep up with him.
“Ah, no - ” Jughead argues - argues - with him, “it is profiling! It’s - it’s - ”
“ Odio gringos ,” Fangs mutters, making Sweet Pea snort with laughter.
“We’re a family,” Jughead demands, standing in front of them, blocking their way, eyes blazing up at Sweet Pea’s, “you need to stand with me.”
Sweet Pea’s dangerously close to throwing Jones into the traffic with a swipe of his hand but he’s not sure how he’d explain that in the aftermath and he doesn’t want to kill Jones. He just wishes the insistent little pain in the ass would shut his mouth once in a while and is glad when Jones is finally silent albeit still tagging along. Sweet Pea could have done with some time alone with Fangs to fail at soccer (Fangs is somehow better than him) and throw rocks at cans; mindless, glorious fun, which make him feel seventeen and alive.
Fun isn’t quite a concept Jones has mastered.
They reach the Wyrm, a hive of activity as Serpents drink and roar with laughter in their own cliques, FP stood near the bar nursing a whisky, Sweet Pea spies. It’s no wonder Jughead is so tightly wound when, from what Sweet Pea can gather from gossip and intuition, he’s desperate for his Father to show up for him instead of being in the bottom of a bottle. A fury that he wasn’t expecting surges through him, that FP is here and his heart beats and he’s sat there while his son grieves for him and he doesn’t even have to, because they’re both alive, and as he thinks it - so it is - FP plonks the glass down and Sweet Pea sends it tumbling over his fingers, smashing as it tips behind the bar.
“Dammit!” FP roars, the glass causing serpents to roar in amusement.
Sweet Pea glances at Jones, catching the faintest look of relief on his face, and with that, he doesn’t regret it.
**
It’s not easy suppressing a part of himself, blending in when he already stands out enough as a supposed mortal. The powers of his ancestors could heal a lot around him. Every time he subtly rolls his eyes a certain way, his wrist, with the intention, and then so it is , he can feel his Father and with it a shocking pain, a loss that expands throughout his body and holds him hostage in heartbreak.
He can fight, though. He can use a knife the same way any snake can. He can run without superhuman speed, and he bleeds like they bleed.
The Spellmans were useful, three years ago, but if that’s his only other option - exiled to Greendale - he’ll fight the urge, no matter how often he finds himself running his fingers over the wooden chest full of his father’s books and charms. Life since joining the gang has allowed him freedom and normality but the switch to Riverdale High has made his witchy senses spark. It’s just too tempting, sometimes, to make Archie Andrews spill his afternoon soda all over his lap, or hide Reggie Mantle’s clothes after basketball practice with a whispered intention.
It’s the type of magic they’d play in the Spellman house, Sabrina and Ambrose teaching him their learnt tricks as he explained old tujia magick.
Jughead is his favourite unknowing victim. He can’t keep it up for long, it would make that irritatingly questioning brain of Jones’s start to investigate, but an occasional ‘cat got your tongue’ spell and watching FP’s boy stop, confused, mid sentence, unable to speak, is downright hilarious. He wishes he could share the joke with someone, knowing if Fangs was privy to his otherworldly self they’d play the best pranks like watching Toni scream in horror at the illusion of her hair falling out or even - if they dared - making FP temporarily blind. He plays the scenarios out as he daydreams in class, careful not to wish it into reality.
“Excuse me, Mr. Zhào!”, the crow-faced Chemistry hag shrills, “care to share the joke?”
He shrugs, arrogant and angry, knowing all she’ll do is sigh and continue to bore them all into a slow almost nap.
It’s an ordinary day until it’s not, until Toni and Jones are hyped up and wide eyed, waiting for him so they can trek back to the South Side together. Jones is clearly wired about something and when Sweet Pea is playing tricks on him he can zone him out, ensuring he’s striding along next to Toni rather than stuck with Jones harping on his ear, leaving that unpleasant job down to an awkward looking Fangs.
“ - stop her, just, she can’t do this, she can’t,” he catches from Jones’s endless word vomit, but it peaks his interest.
“Stop who?”
“Penny,” Toni says in a quiet voice, “she’s saying she can throw FP back in jail. Unless Jughead does a job for her.”
“What job?”
“It’s dodgy,” Jughead says, walking with intent, “I know it is. It’s in Greendale.”
“Ooh,” Toni giggles, waving her fingers in what Sweet Pea guesses is supposed to symbolise supernatural goings on.
Jughead scoffs. He doesn’t believe and Sweet Pea knows that’s good.
“I’m sick of her,” Jones stresses, “she thinks she can order me - us - about like we’re her lackies. We’re Serpents. We need to show her she can’t mess with us.”
“Isn’t she rolling with Ghoulies these days?” Fangs frowns, “that could get real messy. Ghoulies do not fuck around.”
“I don’t care,” Jughead continues, “let them come after us if they dare. We need a plan. I can’t be under her charm or whatever it is that people say about her. And my Dad - he can’t go back to jail.”
They all ponder that thought, their leader gone, the gang vulnerable and exposed.
“We can’t match Ghoulies,” Sweet Pea snaps, “they outnumber us and they’re goddamn crazy. Don’t be arrogant, Jones.”
Jughead is full of frustration, chewing the inside of his mouth as his mind no doubt races. They’re right, however, which the young serpents realise as they walk into the bar they call a home. Older snakes are quiet, sipping drinks gently, the aura hitting Sweet Pea hard as he absorbs the anxiety around him. FP looks lost, more so than ever. He waves for the door to be shut before walking up to the steps, ready to address them all with a heavy heart.
“I won’t have my kid doing Peabody’s dirty work,” is the first thing their king says, earnest and proud. No one speaks. Sweet Pea picks up that underneath an unwavering respect there’s irritation at the shelter Jughead enjoys. He’s surprised by a foreign sense of protectiveness towards the prince, which he immediately shakes off him.
“If I go down, I go down,” FP insists, proud and dumb as always, and there’s restless amongst the bodies.
“FP - ”
“Jughead isn’t running any of Penny’s crap,” FP yells, shutting it down, “we have three days to answer her otherwise those ghoulies bastards will tear this place, our homes, apart. Three days and I’ll go inside. Unless any of you have any better fuckin’ ideas, I don’t want to hear an argument.”
He stares out at the crowd with false authority. Sweet Pea can feel the fear rolling off him. Maybe he’s the only one who can smell it. The rest of them just gawp at their leader in confusion and horror, watching him slink off to his own corner, before quiet chatter picks up again.
“He can’t go down for it,” Jughead pleads, as if saying it out loud will convince Penny, “I have to do that drop off. Whatever it is.”
“No, Jug,” Toni shakes her head, frowning prettily, “we have to go with what FP rules.”
Jughead looks alarmingly close to tears.
“No one do anything stupid,” Sweet Pea demands, “let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
He isn’t sure why he’s pandering to Jughead’s need for hope because there isn’t any, yet it feels worthwhile when Jughead blinks at him, convinced that means Sweet Pea’s open to defying FP. They trickle off, Toni to her Grandpa, Fangs to his brother’s and Sweet Pea has every intention of going home, locking himself in and shutting off from the world but as he stomps home the uncertainty of the Serpent’s future is the only thing on his mind. He can feel the energy in his bones, nervous and fraught, connecting him to the ties he made in Greendale, as if both towns are on a tilt and with one slight shake they could tumble off axis.
The key is stiff in the door, a hard push with the shoulder eventually forcing it open. He doesn’t speak, listening for the TV, and sure enough his Mom is softly snoring on the sofa, empty wine bottles at her feet. With a wave of his hand the TV turns off and he fumbles around for a blanket, covering her with it.
“Night, Mom,” he sighs, restless as he walks around the relatively small apartment. If he sits, something forces him up, perhaps the unanswered questions of the evening or this feeling of action that he isn’t sure how to put into place.
There is something he could do.
It’s not a place he’d choose to be, walking through the forests to the neighbouring town, tall trees closing in on him and the unsettling shadows following his every step. The woods out here are well known for their spooky element, that bridge between Riverdale and Greendale, animals not ever just animals. Magic is welcome in these woods, it lives here: Sweet Pea remembers it from years ago, afternoons spent with witches and warlocks, each of them wanting to one up the other. It’s easy to find an open space, Sweet Pea crouching to gather a handful of twigs, leaves and fumbling for a lighter in his pocket. It’s not lighting a flame that is hard, watching as it begins to take to the wood beneath him, and he chants from memory, to keep it alive.
Let it burn and burn free, a gentle fire, so I can see .
He stands back on wobbly feet as the fire grows abnormally, twisting into a warm, ferocious crackle at his feet, the heat simmering in the air before expanding, images created in the flames like an old movie. He watches as they take shape, the sinister and cruel face of Penny Peabody, FP in handcuffs and alone, the flames blue and wild as they show Ghoulies on a rampage, burning trailer homes, Toni stumbling through the streets with a broken, bloody nose, Jughead Jones bloody and blue.
His stomach rolls, sick, as he watches their fate.
“Sweet Pea…?”
The simple words almost throw him into the air, jumping round to see none other than Jones, eyes blown, watching the unexplainable happen in front of him, a projection of the future dancing in flames. Sweet Pea’s torn between a memory wipe or simply gaslighting Jughead into thinking he’s going crazy, but he’s too slow, too fixated on the way Jughead stares, entranced, by the predictive fire.
The eternal horror of being cast aside is finally coming to life. Maybe it always was and he was a fool for thinking he could bury it. He’s fighting for an answer when Jughead steps closer, if a little unsteady.
“How did you…,” he blinks, and in the world’s slowest second Sweet Pea can feel that he needn’t fear Jughead Jones spilling his heaviest secret. He’s awed, not disgusted, impressed rather than scared, eyes flickering between the fire and his fellow serpent and there’s a sudden, delicious feeling of relief that courses through him.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Jughead promises, as sincere as ever, “I swear.”
Sweet Pea debates punches him. The gaslighting option is still an option but it feels tired and old before it could even begin.
“I needed to know,” he finally hears himself say, “what would happen.”
“This is what happens?” Jughead asks, eyebrows raising, “so it’s all a lie, either way?”
Sweet Pea shrugs.
They both watch the flames, their home being destroying, the flicker back to a lonely, furious, desperate FP locked up and helpless.
“This can’t happen,” Jones whispers, as if his words have any weight, “it can’t.”
“We should go,” Sweet Pea murmurs, well aware that a light from the depths of the forest in Greendale could draw curious guests, ones who wouldn’t be keen on seeing a mortal boy being exposed to worlds he should be ignorant of nor a boy with magic he doesn’t quite understand exposing those worlds.
Jones lets him lead, following, Sweet Pea confident he’ll be looking over his shoulder as the fire withers to ash. The silence between them isn’t uncomfortable. He can feel Jones’s desperation to ask and a self preservation instinct kicks in, almost sending Jones on his feet as he stops, the other boy stumbling into him.
“Gimme your hand,” he gestures, beckoning for it. Jones is wary, which seems sensible, but he reaches out regardless, with the same lack of care for himself that he always seem to exhibit and perhaps Sweet Pea should feel bad about that but there isn’t time. He takes the boy’s left hand, small in comparison to his, and reaches around for the knife that’s always lodged closely across his heart, in the inner pocket of his jacket. He reassures Jones with a look, or maybe it’s a warning, but either way, he cuts into the milky palm he holds a perfect circle. Jones winces audibly but braves the sting, waiting as Sweet Pea curves it, before subjecting himself to the same carving.
“Up,” he gestures, neck stretched as he ensures the carved circles match each other neatly, pressing into each other.
This blood will curdle, without wait, if secrets are shared, you’ll meet your fate .
He doesn’t speak it. He doesn’t need to, it is done . Jones examines his palm, a faint white circle marking the spell. Sweet Pea waits for the litany of accusations and questions but they don’t come, so he rewards him with an answer.
“Don’t tell anyone what you saw,” he warns, “my blood will poison you.”
“You’ve cursed me?” Jones ask, incredulous, but not annoyed.
“A hex. For protection,” Sweet Pea bitches.
“Ok,” Jughead nods after a quiet minutes, “but can I ask now?”
Sweet Pea takes a deep breath. It’s going to be a long walk back to Riverdale.
**
Sleep is evasive and frustrating. There are different visions attempting to break through his dreams but the resistance he’s put up these past years is as hard as steel and he fights them off as he jerks awake, panting, angry. He doesn’t think Jughead will talk, the other serpent surprisingly docile as he questioned Sweet Pea on their journey home, but it’s still mildly frightening.
Jughead radiates desperation - desperation to protect his father, his home - and Sweet Pea knows how dangerous that is.
It’s strange meeting someone after you’ve revealed something about yourself that allows them to view you differently, so the day is hazy, like he’s stoned and is navigating school with weed goggles. That would be preferable to the reality which follows him around, a boulder on his back, as the young serpents quietly go about their day without the usual jokes. Even Fangs is quiet and distant. Sweet Pea knows Jughead is eager to quiz him again, round his ankles like a puppy at any opportunity he gets, until he eventually snaps.
“What, Jones?”
“We’re a day down,” Jughead says, again with the doe eyes and hurt expression, “just wondering if you have a plan.”
“I’m not some all knowing wizard,” Sweet Pea says, under his breath but loud enough for him to hear, “back off a bit.”
“‘I’m worried,” Jughead mumbles.
“ Me too,” Sweet Pea doesn’t say. His Father’s voice occasionally pops into his head but even he never mentioned the afterlife, what it is or how it works, so he has no idea if it’s real or just his own manifestation of what he thinks his B à ba would tell him. He only has one other option of supernatural support: the support Jun gathered for them, but he let them fade out, unwilling to play both worlds.
Jughead is trying. Sweet Pea appreciates that he’s trying not to explode and jump into the deep end as per usual. His impatience is obvious and Sweet Pea gets it, because this is his home and his family too.
“What you were even doing in the woods?” Sweet Pea frowns, back against the lockers as they wait for Toni.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you decided to walk to Greendale? Through the woods?”
“Yeah,” Jughead answers, defensive, “it clears my mind.”
“I’m not a witch,” he adds, “Penny would be dead, as would half the Ghoulies, if I was.”
Sweet Pea scoffs at the arrogance.
“You think I’m a coward?” he spits, familiar anger flooding his chest, “sending mortals to their deaths isn’t something you do on a whim, dumbass. That kind of mess comes back at you tenfold. It has to be planned. You think any of you weak mortal losers would exist if there were no consequences?”
Jughead’s mouth is open to reply but the locker room door flies open, a red faced Toni appearing.
“Hello, boys,” she grins, “lunch?”
**
Sweet Pea muses on the conversation because it does make him question himself. He has to reason with his anger that Jughead is oblivious to the world he’s looking at, he doesn’t understand it, so it’s useless to be mad at him. His Father always taught him that harm - real harm, not his playful pranks - has to come from a place of protection. It is the last resort. It can be wielded where appropriate but dark magic is like the bottom of the ocean: no one quite knows what lives there or just how powerful it is. It has to be respected.
As the final bell rings and the snakes find each other, Sweet Pea nudges his new partner in crime.
“Meet me at the start of the woods at 8,” he tells him, “near the river. I have an idea.”
He could regret it, but Jughead was right, not that Sweet Pea had any intention of letting him know that. They have no time and no friends, at least, no friends the Serpents know of yet Sweet Pea has the potential to save them, if he allows himself to do so. He can see that Jughead is excited, too, full of beans and energy as if this is a quest which in some ways, it is, and it’s surely a good thing that one of them has hope.
As they trudge through the woods, lit by moonlight, Sweet Pea remembers B à ba telling him about his great escape through the woods back home.
Maybe some things do come full circle.
“Here,” Sweet Pea beckons, kicking dead branches to find the nook they can crawl out of which leads them into the small graveyard. He allows Jughead to take a second as he eyes the enormous black house Sweet Pea’s intending to take them into, and for a moment Sweet Pea wishes he had the ability to read minds.
He spent so much time in this graveyard as a kid, a pre-teen, and even more hours inside, running up and down the lavish staircase, back through to the kitchen where tea was always brewing or a cake was coming to life in the oven. As they reach the front door, he’s hit with a sense of missing it - them - which he repressed and bottled, a grieving technique that helped at the time.
He wraps his knuckles against the oak door and waits.