In Feeling There is Strength

Tears

When Jughead's beanie had been stolen off his head, you'd been the one to find him crying outside his trailer. Even though the both of you were only six, you'd known Jughead long enough to instinctively realize that something was severely wrong if he was crying.

Jug never cried.

So you'd plopped down on the ground next to him, hand gently gripping his own until he'd regained his composure enough to tell you what had happened.

That night, you'd tracked down the little boy that had stolen your best friend's hat and, being the ever gracious lady you were, punched him in the throat and, with a sickly sweet voice, reminded him that next time he'd actually get beat up by a girl. You'd never seen Jughead more happy than when you slipped his beanie back over his head with a tousle of his raven locks.

He never mentioned the crying incident, and you found it your duty to bring him up instead of reminding him of events that tore him down.

In the years that followed, the two of you remained hip and hip; there were long days at Pop's, slumber parties, and nights out in the woods staring at the stars. You were just friends, never more than that, and although you thought he was the handsomest, most incredible boy you'd ever met, your friendship with him meant more to you than anything your heart could ever want.

The next time he cried, you were curled next to him on the same trailer park wall, arms circled around his shoulders as he sobbed into your chest. His desperate, ragged breaths broke your heart as he relived the moment his family splintered apart over and over in his mind.

All you could do was hold him, cradle him against your chest and remind him that everything would work out in the end.

Raising his head from your tear stained shirt, he desperately pleaded, "Don't leave me. Please don't leave me. I can't lose you, too. You and my dad are all I have left."

Shushing him, you pulled his head back to your chest, running your fingers through his wild hair as your pressed your lips to the crown of his head in an attempt to keep from crying, too. "I'll never leave you, Juggie. I'll never abandon you. I'm right here." He nodded, arms squeezing you tighter as you felt the tears water in your eyes.

You loved him.

When he'd moved into the projection room, you were the only one he told, and when the building of your childhood was threatened with being flattened, you'd been the one to wrap Jughead in a hug, glassy eyes gazing at the carnage silently.

You had to be strong for him.

When he was taken in for questioning, you'd stayed by the door, shooting glares at every officer that moved in your direction. After being released, he instinctively took your hand, pulling you out of the building, past his friends and his father. The two of you got milkshakes at Pop's, you doing most of the talking while he receded into his introspective self. It wasn't until you'd taken his hand and pulled him from the restaurant that he focused back in on you, offering you a gentle hug before he went home.

That night you curled up on your bed and cried, thinking of what could've happened if they hadn't let him go. He was your best friend. You couldn't lose him.

You promised you wouldn't leave him.

When the day rolled around that FP Jones was taken into custody for the murder of Jason Blossom, you'd been the one Jughead had ran to, arms enveloping your figure as heartbroken sobs echoed in your ears. He shattered in your arms, the last small fragment of family he had evaporating. You had cuddled his tears away and encouraged him in all his pursuits of recovery, be it writing or investigating or joining the Serpents.