WIP Wednesday
I'm writing this fic. Jughead ends up running an inn. A sort of Hallmark movie homage. Here's part of it.
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Until his dad summoned him and his sister to the outskirts of Riverdale, dotted with stone cottages and clusters of bowing trees, Forsythe “Jughead” Jones had believed his great-grandfather (creatively named Forsythe Jones I) had owned three things.
A double-wide trailer that reeked of Nicotine and dried sweat,
A Glock semi-automatic pistol that he wore in its holster when he was sober, and in the back pocket of his jeans when he wasn’t;
And a cracking leather jacket adorned with an acid green snake and the name of the motorcycle gang he loved more than his family.
Oh, and a liver to about a fourth its normal size, shriveled and yellowed.
So, four things.
Of course, Jughead could be forgiven for not knowing much about his long-deceased grandfather. He’d met the man exactly twice: when Forsythe had shown up uninvited at the door of his childhood trailer, telling Jughead’s father he needed him in a firefight; and when FP had finally given into his father’s complaining and taken his kids to visit Forsythe. The arrival of the motorcycle gang he shared with his father, a rather ferocious gang of men who needed help with a drug deal gone wrong.
[some stuff, skipping it so this won't be too long]
That’s why it was a shock—a jaw-dropping, eye-widening shock—when FP gathered his adult children in the living room of his trailer and told them that his father had left him something in his will.
Jughead and Jellybean had no idea their grandfather had died.
Jughead spoke first because Jellybean seemed unable to form words. “Did you say he left you an inn?”
