Archive of Our Own

1

Most people would fill with dread if they were called into their boss’ office the first thing monday morning; and the dread would only exponentially increase as they’d realise it’s before they even have a chance to consume the first necessary cup of morning coffee.

Luckily, Betty Cooper doesn’t drink coffee. And isn’t one of those people.

So, at 7 am sharp, the knuckles of her right hand knock rhythmically on a heavy wooden door leading to her boss’ office, while the fingers of her left hand curl more securely around her half-empty cup of camomile tea.

“Come in,” a voice calls from inside, so Betty pushes against the door, adjaring it just enough to allow for her small frame to enter the room.

She has been working in the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division, with focus on the non-violent, white-collar crimes, where most of her cases dealt with art-theft and forgeries, for over three years now, of which vast majority was spent under her current boss - Tom Keller. One look at the man was enough to reveal that he had his best years behind them, but once you immersed into a conversation with him, you quickly realised that the statement only applied to his physical condition. Because, his mind, his mind was still as sharp as ever.

“Agent Cooper, please, take a seat,” he says, his eyes jumping up from the paperwork at his desk to look at Betty for just a split second before returning back down.

Betty nods even though the man doesn’t see the movement, and promptly makes her way to one of the two leather armchairs in front of his desk. In a weird sense, the office has always reminded her of the one of a psychologist or a couple’s counselor. But she doesn’t voice her thoughts, instead just silently sips on her tea and waits.

Her waiting allows for few minutes of silence, one that is only rarely broken by muffled voices coming from behind the closed door and low sounds of traffic coming from the open window behind Keller’s back. On several occasions, Betty is tempted to break the silence; but the deep furrow of the man’s brow or his exhausted exhale always stops her just in time. There’s a reason he called for her and she is going to find it out, sooner or later.

And then, the sooner comes - with a thin yellowish binder pushed in her direction and a thoughtful look on her boss’ face.

Betty picks up the binder without a moment of hesitation, opening the file up before she even is able to physically read it, given the distance and the small font they always pick. 

Well, it’s not like there’s a lot to read anyways - a general description of a heist, one that seems just like any other that has come across her table during last month. But then, the longer her eyes travel along the pages, the less similar the case seems.

“What’s this?” Betty asks after she finishes a proper read-through of the file.

“A case. For you,” Keller explains simply. He has always been a man of few words, letting his actions speak up rather than straining his voice. 

Betty’s eyebrow quirks up. “I can see that. Is there any reason why you are assigning it to me directly and not through the regular system?”

A half-smile appears on Keller’s face and if anybody were to ask her to describe it, she would say proud. But, since nobody did, she doesn’t ponder about it longer than strictly necessary.

“I wanted my best on it,” he shrugs, his gaze holding Betty’s for few seconds before falling down to another file on his desk. “That’ll be all, Agent Cooper. Take your partner with you - if you leave now, you might still be able to beat the traffic.”

Betty finds herself speechless after hearing her boss’ words, so she just nods in understanding; only once she finishes the movement, she realises that he’s no longer looking at her, so she forces her voice to speak up. “Thank you.” The words come out more of a muffle than a proper sentence, but Keller’s small hand gesture is enough of an acknowledgement for her and she leaves his office without any more prompting.

Even this early on the first day of a week, the Bureau is already buzzing with hard-working agents and non-stop ringing telephones. Betty’s legs lead her through the corridors of meeting rooms and offices to the open-space cubicles occupied by dozens of agents, where she gives greeting nods to her friends and colleagues, until she reaches her own desk, situated in the far corner of the room, right by a wall-tall window overlooking New York City.

She sets down her over-shoulder bag on a chair, choosing not to unpack the stuff she brought home for weekend just yet and instead, she just picks up the file she’s just received and heads towards the communal kitchen.

Because, unlike her, Archie Andrews gets incredibly cranky and unbearable unless he has his morning cup of coffee. And especially on mondays.

Unsurprisingly, she spots her partner as soon as she steps into the small kitchen - even though the space is heaving with bodies of agents looking for their morning fix of caffeine or sugar, his fiery red hair is impossible to miss amongst the crowd.

“I stopped by your desk and you weren’t there - are you late?” Archie asks as a way of greeting, his tone teasing.

Betty just rolls her eyes at his antics. “I had a meeting with Keller,” she explains promptly, not giving Archie another opportunity to say something, “he had a case for me.”

“So early in morning? Why?” he huffs and Betty has to resist the urge to roll her eyes again. He really gets cranky.

“Yeah, so early. Let’s go, I’ll catch you up on the way.”

And if Archie releases an exhausted sigh and muffles something about how unfair this is, Betty pretends not to hear any of it and just leads the way out.

------

“So, what’s this case about?” Archie asks as they are making their way through the early morning traffic of New York, their car stopping way too many times to consider the journey smooth or not-exhausting.

“Well, the preliminary report says that this guy broke into the Museum of Modern Art sometime during the last night, without triggering any of the alarms or catching attention of any of the security guards. He stole Roy Lichtenstein’s Drowning Girl, leaving a forgery and a note behind at its place and then, he just left,” Betty explains the little that she has learnt from the report.

They both keep their eyes on the road, but Betty knows Archie well enough to be be able to vividly imagine how his eyes squirt with confusion and questions appear on his forehead in a form of furrow.

“He broke to MoMA for what? Why not take something, I don’t know, more valuable?” he questions.

“My guess is as good as yours,” Betty shrugs. “Maybe it was easier to forge, because of its comic-book style? Or maybe he’s trying to send a message?” she ponders for a few moments. “But you know, it’s not like it’s invaluable - after all, Lichtenstein sold it for $43 milion.”

Archie whistles lowly, clearly impressed by the price of the painting. He isn’t the one to appreciate, or understand for that matter, how art gets as expensive as that. Or just art in general, if Betty was to be honest.

“So, you thinking there’s a message behind it?” Archie asks as he parks the car few blocks down from the museum.  

“I’m definitely not ruling the possibility out,” Betty admits. 

She has been working at the white-collar division of the FBI for quite few years already and if there was one thing she has learnt so far, it was that the criminals rarely did something without a motif or an attempt to send a message - and it was especially true with thefts of art pieces. She can’t count how many cases involving environmentally-themed paintings and sculptures she has dealt with, just because the criminals decided that was the correct way to deal with the threat of global warming.

“Hopefully, the crime scene will tell us more, because this,” Betty says, waving the thin yellow file in her hand, “is completely useless.”

Archie lets out a small laugh at that and they quickly walk to the Museum together, flashing their badges as they arrive at the entrance. They are let in and immediately met by the concerned curator and manager of the museum, two men who introduce themselves as Darryl and Dilton Doiley, a father and a son. Talk about a family business , Betty thinks to herself.

“Thank you for coming so quick,” Darryl Doiley says, shaking both hers and Archie’s hand, “we called as soon as we realised there has been a theft.” The man then motions for them to follow him, walking quickly through the halls of the museum.

“None of your alarms went off, is that right?” Betty asks, checking the facts they have received in the file.

“No,” Darryl shakes his head, “actually, it was Dilton who realised something had happened. Dilton, tell them.”

Betty and Archie both turn their attention towards the younger of Doileys, waiting for his explanation as it wasn’t a part of the initial report.

“I always check the whole museum before we open for the day, just a quick walk-around, to see if everything is alright. And usually, everything is, at most I find some forgotten jacket or dropped maps, nothing significant, just something that the cleaning crew missed the night before. But today, there was a post-it note stuck to one of the paintings,” Dilton explains just as they reach the room that holds - well, used to hold - the painting in question. 

There’s already a couple of cops and forensic scientists in there, handful of who are wearing the black FBI jackets instead of the blue of the NYPD. Darryl holds up the police tape for them to enter, both Betty and Archie ducking their heads slightly to pass, quickly followed by the two men.

“So, a post-it note?” Betty asks, her eyes already landing on the art-piece in question -  it fits amongst the other pop-art paintings seamlessly - and with it, the hot pink post-it note, that’s stuck in the exact centre of it.

Dilton says something to answer her question - even though it was more of a rhetorical one than a real one - but Betty tunes him out, her mind already solely focused on the piece of paper in front of her.

On the hot pink background, the criminal scribbled a short message with a black marker, four words accompanied by a messy drawing of a crown.

Jughead Jones wuz here. 

If the incorrect spelling wasn’t enough to rile Betty up, the arrogance of the man would certainly do the job. Who does he think he is, some sort of king? What gives him the right to just waltz in the MoMA and replace a painting by a forgery? 

Betty turns to one of the forensic scientists. “What have you found?” she asks the girl as soon as their eyes meet.

“Not much,” she shrugs, “there are no prints on the painting nor the frame. We have yet to check the note and the back of the painting, as we waited for you to see it before taking it down, but it’ll probably come back clean as well.”

“Security cameras?” Archie quips in the conversation.

“All have been looped or wiped,” the girl shakes her head.

“So, we have nothing?” Betty asks, sighing and the girl just gives her a sad, tight-lipped smile as an answer.

“Well, thank you -” Betty starts, pausing when she realises she doesn’t know her name. She must be new, because Betty is sure she knows the names all of the people who work at forensics. Good manners are something she has always prided herself in.

“Lodge. Veronica Lodge. I transferred here just last week; this is actually my first case in New York,” the raven-haired scientist provides as an explanation.

Betty is about to ask her where she transferred from, but Archie has a more burning question on the tip of his tongue. “Wait, Lodge, as in Hiram Lodge?”

“I see you are familiar with my dear old daddy,” Veronica says, her voice laced thickly with sarcasm.

Hiram Lodge is, so far, considered to be one the worst white-collar criminal of the twenty-first century. His crimes range from multiple cases of bribery, through embezzlement and racketeering, all the way to money laundering. It took FBI ten years to finally build a strong enough case to bring him down and during those years, billions after billions of dollars passed underneath his hands. 

“They teach us about him at the Academy,” Archie offers as an explanation, one that makes Veronica laugh.

“It doesn’t really surprise me,” she admits, “I believe people tend to use phrases criminal mastermind and the king of crime to describe him.”

“Why don’t you change your name?” Betty bites her lip as soon as the question slips out. “I mean, not to sound rude or anything, but-”

“But why do I want to be associated with somebody like that?” Veronica finishes for her and Betty just nods. “He stained the Lodge name and now, somebody needs to cleanse it. I’m proud of my roots and family and I’m not going to let him take that away from me.”

The confidence in Veronica’s voice makes Betty’s mind spin, her words hitting a bit too close to home. But she doesn’t let on that, instead just hums in understanding.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Veronica Lodge. Please, sent over your finished report my way as soon as possible,” Betty says, before turning her attention to the Doileys, already preparing her first question for them.

Whoever this guy, Jughead Jones, is, she is going to find him. One way or another.

2

The television in Jughead’s living room is playing a rerun of Friends, one that neither he or Sweet Pea are paying any attention to. No, instead his friend’s full attention is diverted towards carefully scanning the painting on his coffee table, while Jughead watches his every move with the exact same caution.

“It’s original,” Sweet Pea says after a while, once his eyes finally leave the art-piece in front of him and Jughead has to resist the urge to sigh heavily.

“Did you except it not to be?” Jughead asks, his eyebrow shooting up. 

“You never know,” Sweet Pea laughs and looks up from the painting to Jughead. “I reckon I should be able to sell it by the end of the month.”

“So early? Won’t the feds still be on high alert?” Jughead asks, his head falling to side with the question.

“It’s not like they caught us ever before,” Sweet Pea shrugs, which makes Jughead chuckle.

That’s true - so far, three years in the business, they had no close calls with the FBI. Albeit, they spent the majority of that time in Europe, stealing art and valuables left and right, leaving nothing but a string of forgeries behind, rendering the local law enforcements and authorities nothing but clueless. So clueless, that Jughead is pretty sure that some people still hadn’t realised that somebody has robbed them; or if they had, they decided to keep it all under wraps and not go public with the information, probably too ashamed of their failure to protect the important pieces or their failure to see there was something off about the valuables.

And Jughead doesn’t blame them; after all, he almost never signed his works - neither the forgeries nor the heists - back in Europe. It was better that way, ensuring his and his partners’ security and also helping greatly with keeping a low profile.

But sometimes, drastic situations require drastic measures and the need to send a message was too big and desperate to be ignored, leaving him with no other option than to connect his name - even though it was nothing but a simple pseudonym - to the heist he has performed just a couple of hours ago.

“Did you leave the message?” Pea asks, almost as if he could sense what was running through Jughead’s head just seconds ago.

“Jughead Jones wuz here,” Jughead nods, his voice dry with the words.

“Do you think they’ll get it?” Pea wonders.

“I don’t think I could have been any clearer than stealing a painting that literally says I don’t care - I’d rather sink than call for help and sticking the childhood nickname they came up with on it.”

“I guess we’ll see, sooner or later.”

“We definitely-” A sound of buzzer interrupts Jughead mid sentence, making him get up with an annoyed growl and head towards the intercom by his front door. One look at the small screen is all he needs before he pushes the button with a key symbol, allowing his friend to slip through the, now open, entrance gate.

He leaves the door to his apartment ajar for her and heads back to the living room.

Jughead is pretty sure that Toni must have run up the stairs, because she joins them mere seconds after getting into the building, holding two plastic bags full of take-out boxes in her hands.

“Oh, is that the Drowning Girl? ” she asks enthusiastically and practically jumps closer to the painting, before Jughead’s arms stop her.

“You’re not going anywhere near it with that food,” he shakes his head and holds his arms out, waiting patiently as Toni move the boxes into to his possession. “We don’t want to repeat what happened in Amsterdam, do we?”

Toni rolls her eyes dramatically. “So I spilled some sauce on a painting, what’s the big deal? I was high and it’s not like we got paid any less for it because of the small stain.”

If looks could kill, the one that Jughead gives Toni right now would render her dead on spot, but they can’t, so there’s nothing stopping the now empty-handed girl from exploring the painting closely. 

“It looked bigger in the museum,” she huffs out eventually, disappointment clear in her voice. And just like that, the flame of her excitement dies out and the food moves above the stolen painting on her priority list.

“They always do,” Jughead agrees and carefully puts the art-piece away before picking up one of the take-out boxes himself and settling on the couch next to Sweet Pea. 

They eat without talking, the silence interrupted only by the stupid jokes and over-acted laugh track coming from the TV. None of them are paying particular attention to it though, all of them waiting for the news segment that airs just after the sitcom finishes.

And right on time, it comes. The first story points out another recklessly stupid call Donald Trump has made, the second one focuses on some issues raised by New York’s doctors and the third story covers yet another mass shooting, making Jughead shiver. The fourth story though, the fourth story is the one that makes all of them sit straighter and turn the volume up.

“In the early hours of monday morning, a robbery has gone down in the Museum of Modern Art. The exact pieces that have been estranged from the museum’s collection are still yet to be confirmed, but it is believed that the thief made off with Lichtenstein's Drowning Girl , a pop-art piece valued at $43 million. FBI is present at the crime scene and although they chose not to comment on the situation, the agents promised us that catching this thief, who according to our sources goes by the name Jughead Jones , is their number one priority,” the newsperson says with a quick and sharp voice, “Roy Lichtenstein, most famous for his work-”

Jughead turns the volume down after that, not particularly caring about the rest of her monologue. He has heard the part he wanted - the part he needed to hear.

“Oh, that reminds me - guess what!” Toni says excitingly, placing her half-finished food container down.

“What?” Jughead asks, not really attempting to guess.

“That thing you did - signing your robbery - it scored you your own agent,” she smirks.

Jughead raises his eyebrow at her, not quite understanding her words. “What do you mean, my own agent?”

“I mean that there’s a FBI agent, whose job it is to catch you. You know, examine your heists, try to figure out your identity and all of that drill,” Toni explains, waving her hand in the air nonchalantly as if that helped her to make her point.

“Well, that sounds intriguing. What do we know about them?” Jughead’s head falls to the side, his eyes twinkling with interest. A feeling of happiness and pride blossoms in his chest, making him feel that what he’s doing is important, notice-worthy, if the Bureau has decided to assign an agent to his case.

“Nothing yet, but I can look into it, if you want to,” Toni offers and Jughead nods.

“Please, do so,” Jughead says. 

A prospect of having another person, a federal agent, snooping around his life and trying to catch him should have sounded much more scarier than it did; but then, Jughead has been doing for years. He never left any room for mistakes or slip-ups and he surely isn’t going to start now.

So if this agent wanted to waste their time chasing their own tail and pulling at their hair, then Jughead wasn’t going to oppose at the slightest.

------

Toni comes back few days later, while Jughead is in middle of working on a new painting, one that he’s preparing for the next heist. There are still lots of preparations and planning to be done, finding a breach in their security system and coming up with a plan, but he likes having the forgery done early, not wanting to be under any kind of pressure to finish the art-piece. Even the slightest changes of strokes like those caused by time pressure can be seen upon a careful examination and he can’t allow for that. There’s no room for mistakes.

“Hey,” Toni says as she enters his apartment, heading straight for his fridge and rumages there for couple of seconds, before pulling out two beer bottles. She quickly opens them and pushes one along the kitchen island to Jughead, who first carefully eyes his friend and then takes a quick swing of the drink.

“What brings you here?” he asks - it’s not like it’s anything new for his friends to drop by, more often unannounced than announced, but there’s always a reason for their visits. Even if that reason is just to intrude in his personal space.

“I’ve looked into the agent for you,” Toni shrugs, as if it was the most natural and insignificant thing ever.

But to Jughead, it isn’t - his entire face lits up with a huge smile and his eyes sparkle with excitement. He quickly places the brush down and leans against the kitchen counter, eager to hear what his friend has to say. “Do tell!”

“There’s not much,” Toni starts, pulling up a file from her purse, “you know how protective the FBI is about all of their information.”

“As if that has stopped you ever before,” Jughead chuckles. 

It feels as if he has known Toni for an eternity, even though they have only met during their high school years. But one of the first things Jughead has learnt about his pink-haired best friend was that under no circumstance you should ever piss her off, because she will dig up all of the internet’s dirt on you. There simply wasn’t a place she couldn’t hack and although he didn’t know it back then, that ability would come in very handy. 

“That’s true,” Toni admits, nodding proudly, “but this is all I got.”

She passes him the file and Jughead opens it eagerly.

“Elizabeth Cooper,” he reads out slowly, tasting the sound of the name out on his tongue. His eyes then drop to the FBI-issued headshot and his lips fall into a huge grin almost immediately. “What a woman,” he whistles silently.

Her blonde hair is tied up in a tidy ponytail, not allowing a single strand to stand out of the way. She is a perfectionist, that’s for sure , Jughead thinks to himself. His eyes than scan her face, the serious expression that has taken over all of her features. Well, all but eyes. Her very piercingly green eyes, ones that emit nothing but kindness. For a moment, Jughead allows himself to wonder what it would feel like to stare into them in person; he wonders if she could see his soul, if she could understand.

“So, what do you think?” Toni asks, snapping him from the green haze back to the reality.

He quickly skims through the rest of the information, his eyebrows furrowing at some.

“No info on parents? Or life before the Academy?” he asks, his eyes quickly finding Toni’s.

“For some reason, all of the information on her early life, up to the moment she joined the Academy - including parents - has been classified,” Toni shakes her head, “I could get to it, but probably not without setting off some alarms.”

Jughead waves his hand in dismissal. “Leave it. It’s not worth tipping them off,” he says and continues reading.

“She graduated on top of her class and ever since that been a part of the New York’s white-collar division. That’s impressive,” Jughead hums.

“Wait till you get to her closure rate - I have never seen one so high,” Toni chimes in. Jughead quickly locates the information Toni has just mentioned, his jaw dropping the slightest bit at the number - 98.5%.

“That’s a lot,” he huffs, taking a swing of his beer.

“What, are you getting scared?” Toni’s tone is joking, but the question leaves a bitter silence hanging in the air.

“No,” Jughead shakes his head after a moment, “after all, you know better than anyone how careful I am.”

“I know. But this-” she waves over to the file in his hand, “-this is new. Jug, there’s never been an agent specifically assigned to you and it’s not something to just take lightly. You’ll have to be even more careful, from now on.”

Jughead knows that his friend’s words are coming from a good place, one of a care and love perhaps, but the fact still does little to stop him from rolling his eyes and dismissing her with chuckle. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Topaz. Elizabeth might be good, but I’m better.”

“Let’s hope so,” Toni sighs, “but I’m still putting Fangs on her, to get more information.”

“Whatever will make you rest easier,” Jughead shrugs, finishing off the bottle of beer as well as the conversation.

He doesn’t need his friend to tail the agent to ensure Jughead’s security or whatever. But it certainly would feel nice to learn more about this Elizabeth Cooper.

After all, if that’s what she’s going to be doing, it is only fair for him to return the favour, right?

3

Betty’s phone starts ringing just as she turns the keys in ignition and she can’t stop herself from releasing an exasperated sigh. She’s just on her way to work - whatever it is, can’t it wait the fifteen minutes it would take her to arrive? Apparently not.

“Agent Cooper, speaking,” she says, answering the call without even checking the caller ID. 

“Betty!” Veronica’s voice chirps at the other end of the line, “there’s been another robbery. I’m sending you the address right now.” Betty’s phone chimes with a new message and she makes quick work of setting her navigation to it.

“I’m on my way,” Betty says and hangs up, not even waiting for Veronica to say anything more, hoping that it will allow her to indulge herself in a few more minutes of peace before diving into the mess the case will surely bring along.

After all, she doesn’t need Veronica to tell her who is the person responsible for the heist. She has been working on the case of Jughead Jones for over six months already, studying the criminal’s work and heists every day in order to figure out everything there is about the man and his jobs. And this - receiving a call about a robbery first thing in morning - definitely his doing.

The drive to the crime scene isn’t very long, but it still gives Betty enough time to deal with her thoughts.

During the course of the last six months, Jughead Jones has moved from a regular thief to the one that can only be described as a real pain her ass. The guy already has gone through four heists already, a really impressive number for such a short time, snatching up valuable paintings, sculptures and other art pieces, always leaving nothing but a forgery and a post-it note behind. The lack of evidence and any progress in the case was starting to give her real headaches.

Betty was amongst the few who believed that apart from performing all of those heists, the forgeries were also his work, but she had no proof, as there was no way to figure out who the artist behind the forgeries is. Even if her suspicions were correct, it’s not like he would be stupid enough to sign the art-pieces, it’s already more than enough that he signs his heists. Albeit, if she was right, Jughead Jones was one hell of an artist and she seriously questioned why he wouldn’t just create his original pieces instead of going through all of the trouble that stealing and forging brought.

But, the only thing she could do is wonder and explore the what ifs, playing around with endless possibilities. After all, even after the months of studying him, there are still only handful of facts she is sure of.

He is extremely clever, for starters. Betty has spent days (or more like weeks), going over the blueprints of the buildings he infiltrated, checking their security systems for any bugs and backdoors in an attempt to figure out how he pulled off the heists, in an attempt to understand how his brain works. And that time hasn’t been wasted as it allowed her to learn a lot about him. He has an eye for detail, otherwise he wouldn’t have noticed the loopholes the systems provided and the security traps he needed to avoid. He is extremely patient, as sometimes he had to spent hours and hours waiting in the building until the time was right. His nerves are made of steel and his hands probably never shake, otherwise there would be no way for him to do even half of the stuff he does.

But, sadly, none of that information has brought Betty closer to actually catching him.

Apart from his name - if Jughead Jones could even be considered a name, as there were no records of anybody like that in any of the databases she checked - all they had was a blurry shot from an ATM camera from across the street as he was leaving one of the locations and a police sketch done by a security guard in the third heist.

To put things lightly, they don’t have much to go off from.

So, when Betty finally parks her car by the crime scene and walks to the small museum that held a temporary exhibition of jewellery of some old important European family, an excited look on Veronica’s face is the last thing she expects to see.

“We’ve got something,” the girl says, dragging Betty along to her small work-station she has set up on a reception desk.

“Wow, shouldn’t I check out the crime scene first?” Betty says, half-laughing, half-serious. 

“It’s the same as always, so no, it can wait,” Veronica shakes her head, quickly points to the screen of her tablet and presses play on the video.

Betty watches the recording carefully, unsure of what exactly she’s looking at. It’s just few second long, what looks like an Instagram or a Snapchat story of two girls dancing, clearly drunk out of their minds as they seem to have no care for the people that keep passing around them on the sidewalk.

After the third repeat of the video, Betty looks up at the Veronica, awaiting an explanation.

“Okay, hear me out - I know it’s going to sound stupid, but every time we have a crime scene, I make sure to check social media stories that have been uploaded on different locations nearby. Because, you know, the criminal has to get away from the crime scene somehow and since everybody enjoys recording stuff and posting it online, there’s a chance they mind end up with our suspect in a shot,” Veronica explains.

It takes a second for Betty to fully comprehend what her friend has just told her - but once she does, she plays the video once again, this time completely ignoring the two girls dancing and instead, focusing on the sea of strangers behind them. And there, amongst the many unfamiliar faces, she notices one that isn’t.

“That’s him!” Betty squeals, rewinding the video a bit to the part where his face was the clearest.

“I know! I was just waiting for you to get here, so I started on the videos and this is literally the second location I checked! We finally have a clear shot of him,” Veronica says, beaming proudly.

“Great job,” Betty says proudly. 

Over the months they have been working together, they have become quite a good team and not only that, also quite a good friends. Betty couldn’t have asked for a better forensic to have on the case, because times after times, Veronica has proved herself to be an incredibly observant person.

“Thank you, boss,” the girl says cheerfully, “now, go and take a look on that crime scene, hopefully my eyes weren’t that sharp over there and I missed something.”

Both Betty and Veronica know that it is just wishful thinking, but Betty takes her time to carefully examine the crime scene nevertheless. As always, the evidence that they have found are very few and sparse, the yellow numbers placed around the room not even reaching double digits. There’s a blown keypad by the door, Betty presumes as an aftereffect of being hacked, there’s an alarm box that was tampered with by the entrance, there’s a closed glass showcase, with what Betty believes to be a forgery of the original jewels and, unsurprisingly, a pink post-it note.

“Making fake diamonds, that’s new,” Betty hums, more to herself than to anybody else.

“He’s a man of many artistic talents,” Veronica agrees, “we have yet to examine them, but they look very authentic.”

“Maybe he forgot to switch them?” Betty chuckles as she carefully looks over the precious stones in front of her. She’s no expert, by any means, so the work would have fooled her easily. But then, she’s familiar with the quality of the forgeries that Jones keeps producing, so seeing these, very authentic looking diamonds should not come off as any surprise to her.

“That would certainly make the case more interesting,” Veronica nods.

“Alright, let’s bag the evidence and get to the Bureau, so I can start running his photo through our databases. Hopefully, it’ll yield more results than the sketch did,” Betty says and Veronica just nods before getting to work.

------

Disappointingly, yet unsurprisingly, running the photo through all databases Betty could get access to, comes back yielding no usable results.

It’s late Thursday night - she’s probably the last person to still be in the office, but she can’t force herself to leave, not just yet. Not while there still are more sources to check, more places to look. If only she knew what those places were.

Betty rubs her hands against her face, her palms scrubbing at her skin, hoping that the action will push some idea into her brain or at least relieve some of the tension that has been building inside. But, it does nothing - it only makes her eyes itch as they are all exhausted from staring at the computer screen for entire day.

She probably should take a break.

There’s an empty mug on her desk, one that Archie gifted her the last Christmas, so she takes it with her to the kitchen - a cup of green tea should be enough to keep her going for couple more hours before she can call it a night.

Betty leans against the kitchen counter, staring at the abstract art-piece adorning the wall above the dining table in their small communal kitchen. It’s very abstract - just few strokes of yellow accompanied by couple blue ones and Betty can’t help herself but to think how Jughead could probably copy it in a matter of seconds. Not that he would need to do that - after all, you can probably just simply buy this one in Ikea, or Ebay, or something like that.

But still, that doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s an extremely talented artist. Betty had the opportunity to compare few of his artworks - no, forgeries - to the originals they successfully managed to retrieve and she was often rendered speechless at the lack of difference between the two. 

Was he born this talented? Betty wonders, or did he spend endless hours practising the craft until he mastered it? That would have taken him years…

But there’s no way he would be able to paint like this without at least some practise.

It is a crazy idea and a very long shot, but it is something definitely worth exploring, especially now that she has a clear picture of him.

Betty hastily finishes making her tea and then hurries back to her desk, where she dives into work.

She starts by pulling up the list of New York’s art schools - she lets herself assume that Jughead is originally from here, since criminals often like to go back to their roots, setting up shop in a place they’re familiar with, for example, like their childhood home. Even though she can’t be sure if that’s the case here, she’ll just have to have faith. 

The list is longer than she expects it, after all, New York is a huge city with tons of business and there’s no reason for art schools to be an exception from that, but she doesn’t allow that to scare her off. 

No, instead, she continues by downloading all of the graduation photos from the years 2003 - 2018. From the photo, she assumes he can’t be older than 30, so if he started attending an art school very soon, let’s say at five, he would have graduated nine years later, in 2003. Or, maybe he started very late and finished only in the previous year, just mere months before the first heist. Or, you know, any time in between.

Adding fifteen years worth of sets of graduation photos to every school in her already long list is an excruciating task and for a second, Betty considers the possibility that she’s reaching a bit too far, that it isn’t just like looking for a needle in a haystack, but in about a thousand of haystacks, but when her computer chimes to let her know that all of the data has been downloaded, she pushes the thoughts away and refocuses on her job once again.

Uploading the data into a program for face-recognition is rather quick, so it takes her just few minutes of clicking before she can sit back, sip on her still very hot tea and wait while the program does it job and runs through the thousands and thousands of faces, searching for a match.

It’s only once Betty is already half-asleep and first rays of sun start colouring the skies above New York with pink hues instead of blue, that her computer chimes again, this time accompanied with green letters on the screen.

A match found.

All of the sleepiness and drowsiness leaves her body immediately, her eyes snapping open as they re-read those words. A match, a match , she has found a match. She has found his face among the thousands of strangers that attended art schools in New York.

Wow .

She quickly clicks to see the results, three photos opening up on her screen. The first one is a group picture of about a hundred of kids, with words class of 2011 added in a boxy font at the bottom. There’s a green square around Jughead’s face - he’s standing in one of the middle rows and had it not been for the software, Betty surely wouldn’t have noticed him.

She moves onto the next picture, one that is of a much smaller group, about twenty people. This time, Jughead is standing in the back row, much easier to locate, but that’s not what catches her attention. No, her attention is on a guy next to him; one that is slightly taller than Jones and has his arms thrown across Jughead and another guy’s shoulders. There’s a clear sense of closeness and friendship radiating off their postures and Betty finds herself running the photos of them through their database before she can even realise what she’s doing.

It’s not like she expects any results, so when a file pops up on her screen, she can’t hide her surprise and she opens it without a moment of hesitation.

First thing that catches her attention is the fact that the file is from Interpol’s database and not their own. She catalogues that information into her mind and gets into the reading.

The information the file contains is sparse; after she finishes reading, all she has learnt, is that the guy, who apparently goes under the name Sweet Pea, has been considered a suspect in numerous thefts all around Europe, with the heist dates spanning across duration of three years, but there has never been more than circumstantial evidence against him. There’s handful of photos of him in the file, each with a short description of the location (always one that ended up being robbed handful of days or weeks later). Had she seen the file just like that, she wouldn’t think much of it, filing it away just as a coincidence. But, since the guy had (or has) a clear connection to Jughead, she’s not going to let anything up chance. So she keeps digging, starting by detailed examination of all of the photos in his file.

She doesn’t know what exactly she’s looking for, but then, it hits her right in the face.

It’s a picture of Sweet Pea sitting in a cafè somewhere in Paris, his head the only thing that is poking above the curtain on that’s obscuring the lower part window. Well, his head and the top of what looks like a grey beanie worn by the guy sitting across of him. A beanie that looks very similar to the one Jughead Jones has been seen wearing.

Betty knows it’s not enough of a proof that the guy with him is Jones or even that they’re working together. But she also knows it’s not just a coincidence. So, she quickly prints out all of the files on Sweet Pea and returns to the last of the pictures that has matched with Jughead.

There are no other kids in the picture with him, only two guys dressed in suits, all three of them posing for a camera, with wide smiles on their faces. One of them is holding a gift bag and the other a trophy, but neither of those things interest Betty. Her attention is dragged to the diploma in Jughead’s hands, the one he proudly shows off to the camera. 

For the outstandingly inspirational works and profound talent, the Royal Art College of New York City awards this diploma to the top student of class 2011, Forsythe Pendelton. May the art you create forever bring you happiness and success.

Betty skims over the words on the diploma couple of times before leaning back and fully taking in their meaning. Not only she managed to find the art school he attended, which honestly was all she was hoping for as she started looking into this, but she also figured out his name. His name!

She leans back to the computer, opening up the federal database and quickly typing the name in. But, the result that pops up on her screen is not at all what she expects.

The guy in the picture is much older, according to the file already in his fifties, but the name matches nonetheless. Betty carefully looks over the profile, thinking it’s a mistake of sorts, but all of those thoughts disperse once her eyes focus on the photo. She hasn’t noticed it at first glance, but looking at it more carefully, the resemblance is uncanny. This man, Forsythe Pendelton, must be Jughead’s father.

So she does the only thing she can - she dives into his file. And soon after that, a realisation that this is not just an ordinary criminal dawns on her.

Forsythe, or FP as the file states his preferred name, along with his wife Gladys, both have quite a record. Multiple offences that stretch from small crimes as drug dealing and robbery at a gunpoint, all the way to alleged torture and murder. Betty’s stomach does few somersaults by the time she finishes both of their files, but she bits the disgust down and prints them out anyways, along with the newly acquired photos of Jughead.

She then carefully caries all of the new information towards her, until now, very empty board and slowly starts pining the papers up, organising and connecting the information. It’s only when she finishes up that she notices that the office is no longer empty, but rather buzzing with early morning chatter of arriving agents.

It doesn’t take long for Archie to come in as well, joining Betty by her murder board (even though it doesn’t include an actual murder) and letting her talk his ears off about all of the stuff she found out during her all-nighter.

All the stuff that finally brought her a step - no, actually a few steps - closer to catching Jughead Jones.

4 

“You know, it’s fascinating how serial killers are just regular people,” Toni says without lifting her gaze from some trashy magazine she’s been indulging in for the past few hours and Jughead isn’t sure if the sentence was aimed at him or rather at the questionable choice of reading material in front of her.

“Are you going to become one of those serial-killers obsessed people now?” Jughead asks, the probability that she’s talking to him being high enough to risk it.

“Who says I’m not already?” Toni asks back and turns a page of the magazine.

“I do,” Jughead says matter-of-factly, “and I don’t know why that information surprises you so much. At the end of the day, we’re just like them.”

Toni dramatically gasps at that, finally lifting her eyes from the magazine to pierce Jughead with them. “We are nothing like those psychos!” she shouts defensively. “Just you wait, I’m going to show you - putting us in the same box with such crazy criminals,” Toni shakes her head in disbelief. 

Jughead chuckles at her antics and rolls his eyes once the girl drops her gaze. “Well, I’m sorry for implying that there are any similarities between them and you, miss I-can-hack-FBI-in-ten-minutes.”

“Hey, that’s completely different!”

“Maybe, but still, it’s completely illegal,” Jughead shrugs.

Toni lets out an exasperated sigh and mumbles something about how breaking into museums and forging paintings is no better, but once her attention returns back to her magazine, Jughead throws the entire conversation out of his head.

It is only much later that week, during a slow night they have decided to dedicate towards relaxing and binge watching Game of Thrones, that Toni decides to return back to it.

“Boys, please, sit back and let me educate you, alright?” Toni says as the closing credits of the third episode (of that night) start rolling on the screen. She reaches for her laptop and after few quick moments, the black screen and ominous music are replaced by a white slide.

Serial killers are people just like us , the text on the screen reads and Jughead rolls his eyes.

“What’s this?” Fangs asks, a questioning look falling on Toni.

“This, is me, proving to Jughead how weird it is that serial killers are living amongst us, just like that,” Toni explains.

Sweet Pea is the first to start laughing, the sound echoing in the open space of Jughead’s living room. “What?” he asks in between breaths.

“You heard me,” Toni retorts quickly and Sweet Pea just shakes his head, laughter still fresh on his lips.

“Well, go off Topaz, educate us,” he teases her, but Toni only sticks her tongue out at him and moves to the first slide.

“I thought I’d start with somebody simple - Ted Bundy. Serial killer-wise? Totally messed up. But regular life? He attended university, he dropped out and worked low-wage jobs, like any other mortal. Just imagine buying fries from him in McDonalds, isn’t that weird? Then he tried again, changing his major into something he enjoyed more, successfully graduated and found a job in the field,” Toni skims over her points quickly, “see? You wouldn’t have guessed he was a serial killer!”

“Actually, that’s all before he started his killings and once he did, there were signs. He started skipping school and eventually dropped out again,” Fangs chimes in, making all of the heads snap at him. “What? I’ve seen the Netflix documentary,” he says defensively.

Toni rolls her eyes at his addition and quickly changes a slide. “Alright, let’s take a look at this guy. John Wayne Gacy, or more commonly known as Pogo the Clown. His life was nothing out of the ordinary before he started the killings and he continued on the mundane path even during his active years. Nobody around him suspected anything.”

“Well, we can’t really verify that information, so we’ll just have to trust you,” Jughead smirks at Toni, who hufs in annoyance. 

“Fine, don’t believe me, whatever,” she rolls her eyes and moves onto the next slide. “But I’ll find a way, trust me on that.”

“Sure. So, who’s this guy?” he prompts her to start talking about her next subject.

“This is the Blackhood, full name Harold Cooper,” Toni introduces him, “a husband, a father-of-two, a business owner with his own white-picket fence house in a lovely town of Riverdale.”

Jughead’s body tenses in mere seconds, making him sit up a bit straighter and listen more carefully as Toni speaks. “He and his wife ran the local newspapers together and raised two kids and nobody suspected a thing as he kept sneaking out during long nights, leaving stream of bodies of sinners at his wake,” Toni says with ominous tone and under different circumstances, Jughead would have laughed, but not now.

Not when all of this, feels a bit too… something .

“What do you know about his family?” Jughead hears himself asking.

“Suddenly you’re interested?” Toni raises her eyebrow and scans Jughead’s face, “why the sudden change?”

“Because he’s a Cooper,” Sweet Pea suddenly says, the words coming out a lot less teasing than he probably planned.

“Cooper is a pretty common name, Jug,” Fangs offers, but Jug only half hears him.

If her father was a serial-killer, it would certainly explain why there are no records of her parents or childhood in any of the files Toni found about the agent. But then, shouldn’t she be in witness protection, or at least have a different name? No , he is just being stupid, Fangs is right, anybody can be called Cooper and this all is just a big stupid coincidence-

“Fuck, you’re right,” Toni suddenly breathes out, immediately capturing Jughead’s full attention.

“What?” Jughead asks.

“While I was preparing this-” she quickly motions towards the presentation still open on the TV, “- I thought it’s not the first time I’m hearing about Riverdale, but for love of my life, I couldn’t seem to remember where I saw that town,” Toni spills quickly, her gaze fixed on her notebook as she frantically searches for something.

“Wait, what?” this time, it’s Fangs who voices his confusion.

“Here!” Toni exclaims enthusiastically, quickly cancelling the presentation and pulling up a different picture on the screen. “You remember, how I told you there’s barely anything about Cooper’s life from before she enrolled in the FBI?”

Jughead just nods.

“Well, I managed to find this photo, posted by one of her agent friends-” Toni waves over to the picture displayed on the screen, “-which doesn’t prove anything as apart from Cooper, there are four of her friends, but hear the caption: Visiting Riverdale and getting an exclusive tour by our resident local is what dreams are made of. She wasn’t kidding when she said she knows all the best spots! Can’t wait to go back, but for now, onto the next city! ”

“Well, he didn’t say that the resident local was her, so we can’t know for sure,” Fangs offers, but Jughead shakes his head.

“It’s her - it must be her,” Jughead says, his eyes not leaving the photo.

“Are you sure though?” Sweet Pea asks skeptically, “I mean, it can all just be one big coincidence.”

“I’m sorry Sweets, but I think Jughead is right,” Toni sighs, “there’s too many variables in play and all of them are pointing to his theory being right.”

“So, let’s say he is - what does it mean?” Pea asks, cocking his eyebrow up.

What does it mean?  

Well, for starters, it means that maybe, just maybe , his parents aren’t the worst fuck-ups in the world. (They probably still are though). 

It also means that as much as the agent tries to keep up her facade of perfection, she’s just a human with secrets and past that she would prefer to keep hidden. Just like the rest of them, ordinary mundane humans. Just like himself. 

But lastly, and somehow the most importantly, it shows a great amount of courage and determination the agent surely possesses. The decision to keep a name that has been stained and tarnished so badly couldn’t have been an easy one, especially while pursuing a career in law enforcement. Jughead can vividly imagine the looks and obstacles that must have come with it and how she surely took on each one of them, head-on. And for reasons unknown to him, it makes his heart swell with pride.

“It doesn’t mean anything ,” Jughead says, lost in his own thoughts as he settles back against the soft cushions of his couch.

No, it means everything.

5 

For some reason, Jughead Jones decided to lie low for the past month and to say it is pissing Betty off would be an understatement. But she wasn’t going to let that stop her from taking on other cases and that’s how she ends up tailing a guy they believed to be an important black market seller of stolen art here in New York. At this point of the investigation, everything is still very new and boring - she mostly only sits around in a car, takes some photos of the guy entering different establishments and talking with all kinds of people, slowly collecting evidence and building a case against him.

But she is glad for it, as it allows her to change the pace, finally slow down after ten months she has spent focusing mostly solely on Jughead Jones and his case. She lost too many hours of sleep studying the guy, so a case like this, one that asks nothing more of her than to follow the established protocol, gives her all the space to relax and recharge she needed so desperately.

Usually, she brings somebody along on these stake-outs - most commonly Archie, but Veronica kept her company handful of times before already, as well as couple of different colleagues, ones that she considers her friends. But today, everybody seemed to be too overwhelmed with work to join her, so she ended up going alone.

Not that she minds; at least finally nobody grunts over her song choices or asks for too many pee breaks. She has always been one to enjoy the solitude, as it provides her with more space to think as well as allowing her to focus more easily.

And that’s probably why she spots a black car parked few spots behind her.

Normally, she wouldn’t make any deal out of it - after all, this is New York City, there are lots of cars around. But a weird feeling stirs up in the pit of her stomach and she can’t stop herself before following the reason behind it.

So, she closes her eyes and focuses, turning back in her mind and looking over the last couple of weeks, trying to figure out what caused her reaction to the car. She vaguely remembers seeing it near one of the crime scenes, or was it near the Bureau? No, wait, it surely was parked in front of her apartment building couple of days ago-

Her eyes shot up at the realisation. 

It’s been to all of those places.

Somebody is tailing her.

For how long? How has she not noticed it until now? Who would do that? Could it be the work of the man she currently is tailing? No, she has definitely seen the car at one of the Jones’ crime scenes, so this must have been going for much longer. So, was it somebody she investigated long time ago? Maybe somebody she put behind the bars and they want a revenge now…

Her thoughts spiral quickly from there and they would probably have continued to do so, unless the heavy metal door of one of the garages hasn’t shut with a loud bang, startling Betty back to the reality. 

She quickly takes out her camera and takes a couple of shots as the men get into a car and drive off. She follows soon after, but throughout the entire ride, her eyes keep flicking to the black car in her rearview mirror. Although the person is keeping a respectable distance, they are also definitely following her.

Betty spends the rest of her day restless and she tries sneak a peek into the car as she walks by it on her way to buy a lunch, but the luck isn’t on her side as it turns out to be empty. But she makes sure to remember its licence plate, which she runs through their system once she’s back in the car, only to be greeted by no results. She frowns at that - since the car isn’t registered, somebody either paid heavily for that to happen or made their own licence plates. And whichever it is, the person definitely isn’t somebody to mess with.

But, that’s not nearly enough to stop her from continuing to attempt to figure out the person’s identity.

She laments calling for backup, or at least for Archie, but she’s afraid of spooking the person away by having another agent with her, so she foregoes the idea. Instead, she focuses on finishing her day like she would normally do, driving around the city and tailing the guy for few more hours, until he arrives home. 

Betty is parked two streets down from his apartment building and the black car is one block below her. Darkness has already fallen on New York City, so Betty renders this opportunity as good as any - she swaps her coat (the one they surely must have seen her in) for a black hoodie, pulling the hood securely over her head to hide her ponytail and she picks out sunglasses from her glovebox, the biggest ones she can find, so that she can keep most of her face hidden.

She has gotten lucky with her parking spot as there’s quite a big truck parked behind her, meaning that if she exits the car carefully, her follower shouldn’t be able to see her.

So she does, slipping cautiously out through the passenger’s side and sneaking along the truck, ensuring she doesn’t step onto the pavement and into his line of sight nearby her car. 

Once safely on the sidewalk, she walks down the street, closing in on the location of the black car. 

Unfortunately for her, it turns out to be empty once again, so she heads to a small bodega at the corner in order to kill some time while she waits for the person to return back to their car.

A small bell rings above the door as Betty enters the bodega and she gives the man behind the tiny counter a small nod. But he doesn’t even lift his eyes from the newspaper he’s reading, so she quickly ventures further into the corridor, looking over the shelves for some sort of snack. She ends up opting for a small chocolate bar and a bottle of iced tea (she doesn’t suppose she’ll get her hands on a warm cup of tea anytime soon tonight, so this will have to do) and heads to the counter.

But just as she steps into the corridor that leads towards the cashier, she hears voices that make her slow down her movements and instead of walking out from behind the corner, just pop her head slightly out.

“That’ll be all?” the cashier asks and the younger man nods, handing him the cash. He taps his fingers against the counter as he waits for the cashier to return him his change, lifting his head up in the process to scan the collection of the liquers on a wall.

It takes Betty only one look at the man’s profile to realise she has seen the face before and only one more to figure out where.

She has stared at that face almost every single day for the past four months - it has its own special place on her board. The mystery guy from the picture with Sweet Pea and Jughead. She tried figuring out his identity as well, but all of the attempts ended up being useless, keeping this guy surrounded by a cloud of mystery. There was no way to determine if he was working for Jughead or not - well, not until now.

There is no way this is a coincidence.

Betty hastily stacks the bottle and the chocolate bar back onto the shelves and waits until the guy exits the bodega before quickly following after him. 

He’s reaching into his pocket, presumably for the car keys and with the second hand full with the chips and bottle of water he bought, Betty can’t think of a better opportunity. She quickly pulls out her gun from behind her belt as she takes two long steps to reach him and presses its barrel at the bottom of his spine, making sure her body hides the weapon from the curious eyes of strangers.

“Get in the car and don’t even think of doing anything stupid,” Betty whisper silently and the guy just quickly nods. He pulls out his car keys and unlocks the door, quickly sliding into the seat. Betty then swiftly walks around and gets into the passenger seat, continuing to point the gun at the guy next to her.

“Drive,” she orders him.

He obeys, starting up the car and pulling out of the parking space.

“Straight ahead,” Betty instructs him. “Take the right here. And pull over to that parking lot,” she motions over to a multi-storey car park. 

It’s not like she is going to hurt him or murder him, but she doesn’t feel comfortable pointing her gun at him on a rather busy street. A secluded parking lot seems much more appropriate.

He parks the car in a spot that Betty points to and she kills the engine by pulling out the keys before he can do anything.

“Now, please, feel free to explain who you are and why you’ve been following me,” Betty says, deciding not to show all of her cards, at least not just yet. All in due time.

“I- I’m not,” he shakes his head.

“If you’re going to lie, at least do a good job at it,” Betty smirks, “so, should I ask again?”

The guy slowly lifts his gaze to meet Betty and the first thing she notices is that the terrified look is long gone, replaced by an amused smirk.

“Maybe you should do it too,” he says, his head cocking to a side, “it’s not like you’re going to fire it anyways.” He nods towards the gun in Betty’s hand and she quirks her eyebrow up at him.

“And what makes you believe that?” she asks and pushes on the gun’s safety in an attempt to prove a point.

But the guy just chuckles at that and reaches up, his fingers curling around its barrel and pushing it away, so it no longer aims at his body. “Because, during the time I’ve been following you, I’ve learnt a lot about you, agent. And being a person who shoots somebody, especially somebody who’s unarmed isn’t one of those things. So, now, what about a civil conversation?”

Betty scans his faces for few seconds, before sighing and pushing the safety button once again and stacking her gun back into its place. “Alright, a civil conversation. But remember, that although I might not shoot you, there’s a taser and a pair of handcuffs on me I have no problem with using.”

“I’m well aware of that,” the guy nods. He reaches into his door and Betty’s hand instinctively goes for her taser, but before she can reach it, he puts his second hand up in a defensive motion and pulls out the small bag of chips he bought earlier, opening it and throwing a handful of chips in his mouth before offering the bag to Betty, who just shakes her head in refusal.

“Suit yourself,” he hums before putting another crisp in, slowly chewing it.

“If we’re going to have a civil conversation -” Betty says, emphasising the words he used just moments ago, “-I’d really appreciate your name for starters.”

“Fangs,” the man offers and Betty’s eyebrow shoots up at that, “oh, did you think I was going to tell you my real name?”

“Not at the slightest,” Betty shakes her head and swiftly moves onto the next question. “So, Fangs, why were you following me?”

“Boss was interested in you,” Fangs offers with a shrug as he pops another of the chips into his mouth.

“And who might be your boss?” Betty asks innocently, feigning ignorance in the best way possible. 

But apparently, her acting isn’t as up to par as she believed it to be, as Fangs’ brows shoot up and an amused laugh escapes his lips. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

Betty rolls her eyes before rephrasing her question. “Alright, why is Jughead Jones interested in me?”

“See? It wasn’t that hard,” Fangs beams, “isn’t it better when we’re honest with each other?”

Betty scoffs at his words. “Is that why you’re avoiding my questions?”

“Uff, a fair point,” Fangs admits, “actually, it wasn’t Jughead who asked me to tail you. Toni-” Fangs’ mouth immediately falls shut after the name slips out, a terrified look taking over his face for few seconds before he coughs and starts again. “One of our friends wanted to see who we’re dealing with, that’s all. For safety reasons, of course.”

“So, you’ve been following me for how long?” Betty asks, choosing not to pester him about this Toni person, at least not for now.

“Well, how long do you think?” Fangs answers with another question.

“Two months at least,” Betty offers and the man just chuckles.

“For an agent, it took you way too long to notice me. You’re about, hmm, ten months late,” Fangs says and Betty’s eyes widen at shock. That would mean, somebody has been following her since the moment she took this case - and she hasn’t noticed anything. “Hey, but don’t blame yourself for not noticing. I was extremely careful and it’s not like I followed you every day as you are doing with that guy right now. No, this was more of a few-times-a-week thing.”

“Well, that certainly does make me feel better,” Betty rolls her eyes, “so, got anything interesting to report back to your boss today?”

“Meh, not much,” Fangs shrugs, “although, I’m sure he’ll be disappointed that I got to meet you before he did.”

“Will he now?” Betty inquires, not even having to fake the interest.

“Oh yes, Jug’s been dying to meet you for months,” he says, before stopping abruptly. He probably realised that he shouldn’t have said that.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Betty teases and Fangs laughs.

“Sure is,” Fangs says ironically.

A silence settles in the car for few moments, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel heavy. “You know, I should be arresting you right now,” Betty sighs and leans into the chair.

“So why aren’t you?” Fangs asks, his voice empty of teasing for the first time.

“I don’t really have anything on you apart from one stupid photo and the fact that you’ve been tailing me for months, which I can’t really prove,” Betty shrugs.

“Is that not enough for an arrest?”

“It is, but what’s the point? It’s not like you’d tell me anything and I would just have to let you go later anyway.” Betty closes her eyes and rubs her face in frustration, trying to come up with anything resembling a reasonable plan of action.

“Well, I can’t argue with that, agent,” Fangs says, cocking his head slightly to a side, “but if you don’t mind me asking, what photo?”

Betty’s eyes snap back open - shit, shit, shit - why did she have to mention that? It was the one thing that gave her somewhat of an upper hand; the fact that she figured out Jones’ real identity months ago, that she has connected him to his parents, that she had at least some idea who’s the man she’s been dealing with for the past few months and who’re the people behind him.

“I actually do,” Betty snaps angrily at him. She doesn’t owe him anything and certainly not an explanation.

“Alright, alright, a civil conversation, remember?” he chuckles, his hands raising a bit in defensive manner, “how about an exchange?”

That peaks Betty’s interest immediately. “Continue,” she encourages him and Fangs smiles widely.

“How about you tell me all about that photo and I’ll answer one question for you, honestly and fully? We exchange some information and part ways peacefully after that,” he offers. 

Betty scans his face once, twice and then one more time for a good measure, looking for any signs of a lie or a deceit. “How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”

Fangs laughs at that. “You have a taser and a gun and I have this bag of chips. It’s just that simple, agent,” he shrugs, “so, do we have a deal?”

He looks at Betty, quirking his eyebrow up. She takes two deep breaths and then, stretches her hand out for Fangs to shake. “Deal.”

“So, the photo?” Fangs asks immediately after their palms part.

“I found a photo,” Betty starts, but pauses rather quickly. What should she share? She can’t tell him everything, but she has to give him something - anything.

“I believe the deal was honestly and fully, right, agent?” he asks, sensing Betty’s hesitation.

Betty gulps and nods - alright, let’s do this.

“There’s a photo of you and Jughead from your art school. Royal Art College,” Betty offers, choosing to omit the information about Sweet Pea, at least for now. 

Fangs’ eyebrows furrow at the information and in the silence provided by the empty car park, Betty can almost hear the wheels turning in his head. She lets him digest the information, choosing not to interrupt his thought process and instead wait for him to speak first, hoping that the man might reveal something more.

“Wait, did you find us on the photo of all of the graduates?” Fangs asks confused.

“Yeah, there as well,” Betty nods.

“So, not only there,” Fangs hums, “please, enlighten me - what was that photo?”

“It was a smaller group, just your class. There was this guy who had his arms around both you and Jughead and you all seemed really friendly, so I figured there might be a possibility of you still being, you know, close.” Close enough to assist him with committing a series of heists.

Fangs eyes her suspiciously, popping his lips while he thinks. “Well, there goes all of the hard work to erase our digital footprints down the drain,” he sigh and rubs his eyes, “good work, agent.”

“Thanks,” Betty mumbles, not fully understanding why a small feeling of happiness washes over her after hearing the praising words. 

Fangs stays silent then, clearly lost in thoughts, so Betty doesn’t disturb the man, instead taking this opportunity to study him better. There’s nothing unusual about him, nothing that really makes him stands out - had she met him on a random day on a random street, she wouldn’t have even batted an eye. That’s what makes him perfect for criminal activity , her brain supplies automatically and she has to agree. He’s inconspicuous, he’s quiet, he certainly must be good at blending in with crowds.

“You know, I vaguely remember that day,” Fangs reminisces, breaking the silence, “there was a lot of commotion, dozens of proud parents snapping pictures of their kids left and right, long hours of sitting in the auditorium and listening to a speech after a speech and watching the students receive an award after an award.” His voice trails off after that and Betty sits a bit straighter, already knowing what was coming next.

“Does he still have it?” she asks, when Fangs doesn’t pick up the story where he left off.

“Of course he does - it’s the reminder of the best and happiest years of his life,” Fangs answers and Betty can almost feel the honesty seeping through his voice.

She tries not to look for the meaning behind his words, at least not for now, but she can’t stop herself - all of the crazy ideas and theories have already taken over.

“Thank you for sharing that,” Fangs says after a while, “ask away.”

To some level, Betty knows what her question should be - she should ask for some information that would help her catch the guy. Like, the plans for his next heist, how he handles selling the stolen art and money, anything related to his criminal activity. But, when she parts her lips, nothing resembling that leaves her mouth.

“What’s Jughead’s relationship with his parents like?” Betty asks, her head dropping to side as she carefully watches Fangs.

His eyes widen and lips part slightly; the question has surprised him. “Complicated,” Fangs offers.

“You will need to give me a bit more than that,” Betty says. After all, he was the one who insisted on the honestly and fully , right?

“Let’s just say, that they weren’t the happiest when Jughead told them where they can shove their family business on multiple occasions,” Fangs shares, pausing for a second, “you know, he hates being associated with them.”

“If he hates it so much, then why choose to become a criminal?” Betty wonders.

“As much as I’d love to answer that, I promised you only one question,” Fangs says teasingly, “and besides, I’m sure his explanation would be much better.”

Betty wants to retort that it’s unfair, that she answered all of his additional questions and gave him way more information than he shared with her, but she knows all of her attempts would just be futile. 

“As pleasant as this was, I must get going now. Let me drop you off by your car?” Fangs offers and Betty finds herself unable to do anything but nod. Where was her head? What was she thinking? Normally, she would never allow herself to make such a stupid mistake, as criminals are known to play with words, especially if they have precious and valuable information.

They drive in silence, neither of them saying anything until the moment when Fangs pulls up at the spot near bodega, the same one where he has parked at earlier.

“You know, for what’s it worth, the choice wasn’t really up to him,” Fangs says slowly before meeting Betty’s gaze. His eyes are kind and for a moment, she forgets that the man next to her is a criminal and not just one of her friends.

But that moment disappears as quickly as it appeared, so Betty just gives him a tight-lipped smile and nod, before getting out of the car. She takes a few steps away, before turning around and quickly walking back.

“You forgot something?” Fangs asks as he rolls the window down, carefully watching Betty.

“No,” she shakes her head, sighing heavily to battle the wave of nervousness that suddenly overcame her, “just, thank you.”

Betty’s words clearly take him aback, but he quickly recovers and gives her a beaming smile. “I should be the one thanking you,” he says with a small chuckle.

“How about you thank me by not following me anymore?” Betty suggests, which makes Fangs laugh even harder.

“Until the next time, agent,” he says as he rolls up the window and playfully salutes her from behind the glass.

As she watches the car drive away, all of the mistakes and wrong calls she has made tonight come rushing back to her - hell, she hasn’t even recorded the conversation - but as the red tail lights finally disappear around the corner, she can’t really find the strength to be mad at herself. 

+1 

A sharp ringing tone of incoming call pulls Betty out from her deep slumber. It takes her few seconds to put the pieces together - a quick glance at her alarm clock reveals that it’s just past 4 am, on Saturday morning. 

A call right now can’t mean anything good.

But nonetheless, she picks up the ringing phone.

“Agent Cooper,” she whispers into the microphone, tucking on her warm blanket to pull it higher, indulging in the warmth a bit longer.

“We’ve got Jones,” Keller says without a greeting and Betty immediately completely snaps out of her sleepy haze, sitting up on her bed.

“What?” she exhales, unsure if she is still dreaming.

“He set off an alarm while robbing a bank, the one on 7th. The NYPD has the building surrounded and I’m just on my way. How fast can you get there?” her boss asks.

“10 minutes,” Betty answers without a hesitation and ends the call. She gets dressed in a hurry, throwing on the first pair of jeans and a clean shirt she can get her hands on. There’s no time for anything; so she just pops a gum into her mouth before putting her leather jacket on and stuffing one muesli bar and her badge with gun into the jacket’s pocket. 

She practically runs down the stairs to the underground parking, but once there, she doesn’t head for her car, instead stops by her bike. Even though the roads should be empty this early, the motorcycle will allow her to get to the scene much faster.

And it’s true - just five minutes later, after exhilarating drive through the mostly empty streets of the city that never sleeps, she parks her bike by the few police cars in front of the building, leaving her helmet behind before jogging up the stairs leading up to the spot where she sees her boss waiting for her.

“Why aren’t they going in?” Betty asks her boss as soon as she reaches him.

“The building is practically a maze; we have a greater chance to catch him by covering all of the exits than by entering,” Keller explains. “And he wants to negotiate.”

“You talked with him?” Betty’s eyebrow shoots up in disbelief.

“Not really - he actually called us, asking for you. When we told him you weren’t here, he hung up, saying to let him know once you arrived,” he explains. He outstretches his hand, handing a phone to Betty. “Call the last number.”

For a second, Betty hesitates - something about all of this feels off. She has been studying this guy for months now and she’s sure about one thing - he’s a pro. He doesn’t make mistakes and he certainly wouldn’t let something like this just happen. He set off an alarm? That doesn’t sound like the man who walked out of a museum with a five-feet-tall statue just months ago without any problems. 

But, he apparently messed up now. And who was Betty to argue with that?

She takes the phone and quickly dials the number on the screen.

It takes him only two rings to pick up.

“Elizabeth! That was quick,” a voice sounds from the other end of the line and for a moment, Betty is taken aback by the smoothness of it.

“It’s Agent Cooper for you, Mr. Jones,” she corrects him.

“Is it? I thought we were past the formalities already,” he says with a small chuckle.

“And what would make you think that?” Betty asks in return, choosing to play along.

He laughs again before answering. “You know, the regular stuff. We know a lot about each other, you’ve even met my friend…” his voice trails off.

“Yes, meeting Fangs was very helpful,” Betty nods, “thank you for that.”

“Oh, as much as I’d love to take credit for that, it wasn’t my idea,” Jughead chuckles, “but I’ll pass on your gratitude.”

“I know,” Betty says, smiling to herself as she remembers Fangs’ slip up, “you’re not the only one who has done his homework.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything else from you,” Jughead smirks teasingly. “But let’s get to the reason why we’re here, shall we?”

“Right. You’re robbing a bank,” Betty states, stopping for a second before continuing, “that’s new.”

“It is, right?” he asks excitedly, “I’ve never done that!” 

“So, why start now?” Betty wonders out loud. Normally, this would be a question she would think about a lot and eventually would just come to terms with the fact that she won’t get an answer to it, but now, with the criminal on the phone, why not just ask?

“Many reasons,” he admits cryptically, “the money, for starters.”

“Selling art-pieces on the black market wasn’t earning you enough?” Betty asks.

“I needed something more, let’s say instant, this time. You know how long it takes to resell art,” he sighs, clearly exhausted. “But I also wanted to speak with you.”

Betty’s stomach does a little flip at his words. “You wanted what?”

“Well, more like needed,” he explains, but his words don’t help Betty in any way.

“I’m all yours,” she offers, somehow managing not sound as breathless as she feels.

“I know,” he answers and although the words are cocky and teasing, his tone is comes off soft. There are few moments of silence, interrupted only by some shuffling, something that vaguely sounds like shutting of doors and a few beeps as if he punched in a code into an electronic keypad.

“I just wanted to make sure you don’t think any less of me,” he says in a low voice and Betty can’t stop herself from thinking that he sounds very vulnerable.

But still, vulnerability or not, the words confuse her. “You do realise I’m a federal agent and you’re a criminal, right? I am not supposed to think highly of you,” she shakes her head in confusion.

“And has that stopped you?” he asks and Betty gulps. 

No, it hasn’t , she thinks to herself, but her throat contracts too tightly to allow for any answer.

“As I thought. I know you, agent,” he continues when he doesn’t get an answer. “So?”

“Why would I think any less of you?” Betty asks, her voice dropping a few octaves lower, “because you broke into a bank?”

“What? No,” Jughead chuckles, but the laugh dies out almost immediately, “because of who my parents are.”

The confession takes Betty by surprise - out of all of the things he could have said, this certainly wasn’t something that she has expected. “Why do you care what I think about that?” Betty asks instead of answering.

Jughead releases a heavy sigh on the other end of line. “This may come as a surprise to you, but I care deeply about your opinion,” he admits and Betty doesn’t say anything, feeling as there’s more to it. Turns out, there is. “It took me a while to understand, but now I know that I’m not them, that in fact, I’m the furthest thing from them. We both are.”

His last words are soft and barely above whisper, but they still manage to knock the breath out from Betty’s lungs, rendering her speechless for long seconds. How does he know-

“Agent? Are you still there?” Jughead asks, sounding a bit worried.

“Yeah,” Betty whispers, shaking her head lightly to snap herself back to the reality. “How- that’s classified information,” she manages to say, confused about how he found that out. All those years back, when she first started in the Bureau, she made sure that there were no records that could connect her to her father.

“And yet, you kept his last name,” Jughead says, wonder clear in his voice.

“Cooper is a pretty common last name, it doesn’t have to mean anything,” Betty shrugs.

“That’s true, but in this case, it means everything,” Jughead contemplates.

“His actions and choices don’t define me and neither does my last name,” Betty answers with a cold finality in her voice, “it’s a part of me, my identity and he holds no power over it.”

Betty pauses after answering, taking in a deep breath to calm her racing heart. She quickly looks at her boss, just then remembering that this isn’t a catch-up call with an old friend and that she should probably start working on getting a confession of sorts, or getting him out of the bank, or, well, anything.

“But, how about we discuss your issue face-to-face?” Betty asks, her voice moving back to it’s regular octave. She’s working and she won’t get distracted.

“My, my, are you asking me on a date, detective?” Jughead laughs from the other end of the line, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Betty rolls her eyes at his words, but her cheeks still heat up. More than anything, she wants to correct him, that she’s not asking him on anything, but maybe - just maybe - that is a way for him to open up.

“Come out and we’ll think of something,” Betty offers, in what she hopes to be sultry voice.

“I already did, but on another note - did you drive your bike here?” Jughead asks quickly, slurting the words together so fast, that Betty doesn’t comprehend them fully before answering.

“I did… Wait what? How did you get out?” she asks, her voice dropping with fear and shock. No, no, no, she’s so close to finally catching him, he can’t get away!

Without words, she singalises the cops and agents on the scene to start moving, checking the perimeter for any sign of the criminal. They were supposed to have all exits covered, how could he have slipped out?

“C’mon, agent, you know how,” Jughead laughs, “did you really think I’d make things that easy for you? I needed an opportunity to talk to you, so I created one. Now, as the conversation is sadly nearing its end, it’s my cue to leave.” 

Betty’s stomach drops in horror, no !

“Jughead, wait!” she shouts into the phone.

“Well, for somebody who insists on being referred to as Agent Cooper, you seem pretty comfortable with using my first name,” Jughead says smugly.

“Mr. Jones-” Betty corrects herself, but he interrupts her before she can say more.

“I didn’t say I minded it, Betty,” he chuckles, “but as I said, I’m afraid this conversation has reached its end.”

“Has it?” Betty questions, “I still haven’t told you if my opinion of you changed.”

Her eyes keep jumping between the agents who have now entered the bank and the ones that are frantically searching its surroundings, hoping for one of them to find him, or anything that might lead to him, as soon as possible, because she was running out of the time.

“Oh, my dear agent, but you did. The actions of our parents don’t define us, right?” Jughead asks and Betty wants to kick herself - she should have kept her mouth shut when he asked about her father. Now, she has lost her only bargaining chip and he was going to get away.

“I sincerely hope we can do this again,” Jughead says slowly, “but I really must get going now. I promise to return it without a scratch.”

“Return what?” Betty asks quickly, but the only answer she gets is the dead tone from the phone.

Well, that and a revving of an engine.

She doesn’t need to turn around to see what is making the noise, but she turns nonetheless.

Even though he’s dressed in a dark baggy coverall and has her helmet fastened around his head, there’s no doubting that the person sitting on the back of her bike is Jughead Jones. The phone that she was still holding against her ear slips out of her palm and it takes her a second to snap out of the shock and reach for her gun.

“FBI! Freeze!” she screams instinctively, but she’s too far from the bike for it to make any difference.

And Jughead knows it all too well, so he just gives her one last playful wave before revving the engine up once again and disappearing down the road.

Betty can see people moving around her, agents running down the street or jumping into cars and trying to chase the criminal; but even in her shocked, hazed state of mind, she knows all of that is in vain.

Because, Jughead Jones isn’t the only one who knows the person on the opposite side. She knows him just as well and there’s one thing she’s completely sure of - he’s already long gone. 

So, when almost half an hour later all of the teams come back empty-handed, she should feel more upset and angry than she does. And she definitely shouldn’t be fighting away a smile that has been trying to form on her face.

But then, how can she stop herself?

Even though they haven’t caught him tonight, something she’ll definitely be pissed about tomorrow morning, tonight has helped her realise something else, something more important.

She knows him.

And if - no, when - she’s going to catch him, it’s going to be thanks to that.