Bughead Oneshots

Architecture

Jughead's saliva was sludge. He tried to swallow, but found it to be difficult. His eyes were glued to the stump at the end of the bed. The stump. No leg, no foot. Just a wrapped up, angry stump.

There was a knock on the doorframe of his room and he forced his eyes towards the door. He looked out the window when his surgery team trudged in with grins. They always looked too goddamn happy.

"Forsythe," Dr. Sullivan, his primary surgeon—aka: the guy who butchered him—said brightly, holding out his hand. Jughead glanced at it, then up at his face before finally looking back out the window. "That's okay," he chuckled, placing it back at his side. "Your surgery went well-"

"The hell it did!" Jughead shouted, his anger seeping out of him. He was tired of keeping it in. "My leg is fucking gone! You said you would save it!"

"I said I would do everything I can-"

"I can't stand, I can't walk, I can't work! How the hell am I supposed to pay for my fucking medical bills? I know damn well my insurance has crapped out or is at least about to." He sat up, fire in his eyes. The doctors seemed unfazed—this wasn't new. "I'm screwed, you understand that, right? I'm fucked! I'm not going to have anywhere to live, I'm not going to have anything to eat because I can't fucking work! And it's your fault."

"Your accident was bad-"

"I know the fucking accident was bad!" he yelled over him, and the doctor sighed. "Fuck, I was in the goddamn thing, I'd be the one to know! But you—you were supposed to save my leg! You had one job and you didn't even do it!"

The doctor waited a beat before stepping over towards him. "Are you finished?" he asked and Jughead's nostrils flared. "Okay," he groaned as he sat at the foot of Jughead's bed. He set his clipboard aside, unwrapping the bandage and nodding. "It looks good, very good. You're healing well, now you just have to get over the adjustment period."

Jughead rolled his eyes. That's obviously going to be much easier said than done.

"I'm going to set you up with one of our physical therapists downstairs," he started, scribbling on a paper on his clipboard. "They will get you fitted for a prosthetic and rehabilitate you. If you put your mind to it, it'll be easy. If not..." He shrugged, smirking as he met Jughead's eyes. "You'll be in a load of hell."

"I can't afford it," Jughead muttered as Dr. Sullivan stood and tucked his clipboard under his arm. "I can't afford any of this."

"Your insurance is still running. It's close to cutting out, but it's there," he said as a 'reassurance' that sounded more like a 'figure it out, I really don't care', to Jughead. "It'll cover about half the prosthesis before it's done." He nodded and offered Jughead a smile. "Good luck."

Asshole, Jughead thought, clenching his jaw as he looked out the window.

~

Betty smiled at the nurse behind the desk, waving. "Morning, Kevin," she breathed, pulling her hair up and tying it. "Who do I get today?" she asked and sighed, dropping her hands on the desk.

"Room 129. Forsythe Jones." He passed her the chart and she scanned over it. "He was in that motorcycle/car accident a few months back."

"Oh my god," she breathed, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she glanced up at Kevin. "That was him?"

"That was him," he chuckled. "He was pretty fucked up but his leg was destroyed. Then Dr. Sullivan's cocky ass came in and swore he could save the leg...yet, here we are. He's pissed off and not talking."

She sighed, shaking her head. "He does much more harm than he does good," she muttered, handing Kevin the chart. "Someone has got to shut him up when he starts talking like that. And it's always me or James who has to deal with the people who are angry and seething."