Falice Oneshots | Volume 2

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Co- written with AliceSmithFBI
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FP had seen a lot. Being a gang leader, growing up on the South Side, joining the Army. All of these things had ensured that FP had seen the worst of the worst.

But nothing prepared him to see his son in a body bag.

That was the sight that led him to the exact spot he was in now. Four shots deep and pouring a fifth at the dining room table he was supposed to share with his family.

He'd spent most of his adult life drunk, but Jughead had pulled him out of the trenches. Reminded him what was important in life. He taught him that there was more to their life on the South Side than just hating the bigger men. That falling into the trap of alcoholism was just a way to let them win.

But FP didn't care anymore. He lost Jughead.

Jughead. The one constant thing in his life, his own flesh and blood. He had such high hopes for that boy and now those hopes and dreams are lying in a morgue.

It isn't right. He should've never outlived his son. He was supposed to grow up. He was supposed to go to college and become a famous writer and get married and have kids of his own one day.

But someone had taken all of that away from him. Those preppy bastards never wanted Jughead there anyway. This was all a part of some convoluted conspiracy against their family. Some vendetta that began long before Jughead. One that he never should've been a part of. But FP had made him go to Stonewall. Talked him into staying after he wanted to withdraw. All because of his pride. It made him proud that his son, his flesh and blood, was accepted into such a prestigious school. Look how far that pride had gotten him. Just shy of six feet under.

His hand tightened around his glass and if it weren't for the sound of keys turning in the lock he's sure it would've shattered from his grip.

He looked up with bloodshot eyes to see Alice walking in the door. "Hi honey." He watched as she hung up her coat, knowing it was only a matter of time before she saw the glass in his hand, saw the whiskey bottle on the table. She turned to walk into the living room and the beaming smile on her face immediately dropped.

"What is that?" Alice asked megarly, her expression blank as she tried not to assume the worst. That was hard when she could see the evidence in his hand, could smell it from where she was standing five feet away. But still, she didn't want it to be true. "Honey, what is that?"

"What does it look like, Alice?" He scoffed. "I fell off the wagon again, don't pretend to be shocked."

She pursed her lips as she walked into the kitchen, coming to stand at his side. "I can see that." She paused and extended her hand for the glass. "Give it to me."

He blinked. "No."

"Forsythe."

"Full naming me isn't going to help me, Al. Didn't work with my mom, and it's not gonna work now. I'm a lost cause, always have been." He said, voice gravelly from the familiar, but forgotten burn of the alcohol.

"FP, give me the glass." She tried again. "I know you're hurting right now but this isn't the way to cope and you know that."

"Cope?" FP looked up at her for the first time since she'd walked over to him, incredulous. "There is no coping, Alice. My son is dead. He's not coming back. How the hell am I supposed to cope?"

FP's shoulders shook as his voice became more and more broken, louder and more heart wrenching with each word. Alice dropped to her knees, maneuvering herself between him and the table, trying to get him to meet her eyes, but his head was in his hands.