Chapter Text
i've tried before to tell her
of the feelings i have for her in my heart
every time that i come near her
i just lose my nerve as i've done from the start
every little thing she does is magic — sleeping at last
“Juggy,” says Betty, a little nervously, chewing at her lip and determinedly fixing her gaze on anything except him. “There's only one bed.”
And that's how it starts.
Well. Maybe that's not strictly true. Maybe it started twelve and a half years ago, when a little girl and her redheaded companion befriended a tiny boy in the playground of the local kindergarten. Maybe it started four years ago, when Ginger Lopez dragged Archie along to her party, who dragged Betty along, who dragged Jughead along, who ended up playing an ill-fated game of spin the bottle and realising that Betty Cooper was not as bad of a kisser as he'd been expecting.(In fact, she hadn't been bad at all.) Or maybe, it started a week ago, on a penultimate Thursday afternoon, when a blonde-haired girl smiled and a beanie-clad boy gave in instantly.
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ONE WEEK AGO
It's Friday. The dreaded day—for Jughead, at least. Fridays are extracurricular days, which means Archie has football practice, and Betty has cheerleading with Veronica, and even if Jughead is desperate enough to seek companionship with Kevin—which he's not, because he's exclusive and elusive and not looking to be intrusive—he can't, because Kevin always disappears on Fridays afternoons for some weekly mysterious date that Betty and Veronica won't stop asking about.
So, Fridays. The dreaded day. But maybe Fridays aren't so bad, because Betty always sticks around the Blue and Gold for an extra half an hour than usual while she waits for Cheryl to call in the River Vixens, and it's not that Jughead enjoys spending more time with Betty—but he does, a little bit, a little more than he’ll admit.
“I think I found a lead,” says Betty on this particular Friday. It's raining outside, and she’s already dressed in her cheerleading outfit, and he wants to say something like maybe you should call off practice today, you’ll catch your death in this weather , except he can't because a) it's not like rain would have stopped Betty Cooper anyway, and b) it's not like rain would have suddenly turned Cheryl Blossom into a sympathetic, understanding person.
“A lead,” he echoes, shaking himself out of his thoughts.
Betty nods, a determined smile making its way across her features, and sits down on the couch right next to him. Their knees brush, but he isn't even sure if she notices.
“The night Jason died, my dad wasn't home.”
Jughead shakes his head. “We already covered this, you said he was away at some conference.”
“Right,” Betty confirms, eyes gleaming in that way she gets when she's uncovered something important. He sits up straighter. “Except I did a little digging, and there was no journalism conference in Greendale on the Fourth of July. Or in the month of July, period.”
“So he's hiding something.”
“Something big,” says Betty. “My dad went all the way to Greendale for a reason. It has to be important. And it might be a long shot, but it's our only shot.”
“You want to go to Greendale,” Jughead realises. “You want to investigate the crime scene itself. Betty, that's a five hour drive.”
She smiles at him, a little sheepishly, a little frayed at the ages. He can see how much she needs this, and how much she’ll never admit it. He's always known Betty was brave, but to investigate a felony that you think your parents might have committed? That's another level, entirely.
He reaches out, touches her reassuringly on the knee. “I hope you're a good driver.”
Her resulting smile is so bright that Jughead’s torn between scrambling for some sunglasses and taking a perfect snapshot of this moment forever. Or better yet, writing it into his novel. He wants to say something, preferably something intelligent, maybe a little playful if he's feeling really risky, but all he does is retract his hand and avert his eyes.
“Crimson Peak’s probably going to chew your head off if you don't move quickly.”
Betty's eyes widen, and she leaps off the couch. “I'm late for practice! Thanks, Jug.” And before he can do or say or even think anything, she reaches over and kisses him on the cheek. “I'll talk to you later.”
And then she's gone, and Jughead is left grinning down at his lap, and it's just like every other Friday. (And, maybe, Fridays aren't so bad at all.)
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PRESENT TIME
Jughead stares at the bed, the double bed (singular, as in there’s only one ), and he stares at it again, and he pauses.
“I can sleep in the chair,” he says easily, and Betty frowns at him—which, okay, he should have anticipated by now.
“I made you drive all the way here because I was too panicked about what we would find here,” she says. “You at least deserve a bed. You probably have cricks in your back.”
“Last I heard, I wasn't an old man, Betty,” Jughead points out, unable to stop his small smirk. Although, a fair case might be made for old soul . And his back does hurt a little bit. But that's entirely irrelevant, and contrary to his point. “The chair’s fine. And before you suggest it, I'm not letting you take the chair. My mom would kill me. Actually, I think JB would kill me.”
“Jellybean has always had exceptional taste,” Betty concedes, light-heartedness creeping into her tone. “Right. Okay, then. So… we can just share the bed, then.”
“Share the bed,” Jughead echoes. His eyebrows raise half a fraction.
Betty’s cheeks look a little pinker than usual, if he's not imagining it. She pats the bed covers, somewhat awkwardly, and shrugs.
“Yeah. I mean—we used to do this all the time.”
“Yeah,” Jughead agrees, “but admittedly, that was when we were eight, and it was still socially acceptable.”
“Since when do you care about being social?” Betty asks. Her cheeks are definitely pinker, he's decided. The flush might have spread to the tips of her ears, too.
“You do have a point there.”
“I always do,” says Betty with a smug little smile. “Look, we’re responsible, right? We’re friends. And neither of us is going to let the other sleep in that chair, so it looks like this is the best option.”
Jughead thinks about sharing a bed with Betty. Betty , who he grew up with, with her blonde hair and her blue eyes, and a different smile reserved for everyone. His throat’s gone a little dry, which is absurd . It's just Betty.
“Looks like it is,” he says, and sets down his bag.
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It's a little weird, sharing a room with Betty, seeing all their stuff laid out side by side next to each other. Their toothbrushes notched in the same holder, coats hung up in the same place, shoes lined up together. A little weird. But not bad .
“You know, I’ve only been to Greendale three times before,” says Betty. Jughead glances over at her. She's lying on her stomach on the bed, nose buried in a local map, surrounded by piles of research and brochure logs.
Jughead’s fingers pause on his keyboard. “Well, you're beating me.”
Betty looks up at him over her map. “You’ve never been to Greendale before?”
He smiles at her, a little bitterly. “The Jones’ aren't exactly big on family holidays.”
“Right,” says Betty, and she looks so sad for him in that instant that he regrets having said anything in the first place. Bullying, he can deal with. Judgement. Even pity , on a good day. But one sympathetic look from Betty Cooper? That's another story entirely.
“What are you looking for?” he asks instead, and Betty turns to sigh at her map, nose crinkling as she tilts it this way and that.
“Supposedly, my dad’s conference was held at 34 Picket Drive. The official records say it's a B&B, but I’m not finding anything on this stupid map.”
“Google Maps?” he suggests, and she pulls a face.
“Do you think Nancy Drew had access to Google when she solved all her mysteries? Did the Scooby Gang carry the latest Apple products around with them?”
Jughead can't help it. He laughs. “I appreciate your authenticity.”
“Well, there's also the fact that we have no reception,” Betty admits. “Hey, can you come help me? I think I'm starting to go cross-eyed.”
Jughead rolls his eyes. Before he can properly think things over, he joins her on the bed. She pushes the map over, and he blinks at it for a few moments, before his finger goes to point at a particular spot.
“There. Picket Drive.”
“You’re a miracle worker, Jug,” Betty exclaims, and he turns to smile at her as she whips out a marker and begins to plot a route. She inches closer to reach the edge of the map, shoulders bumping his arm in the process, and he realises how close she is. Close enough that he can make out the mile tucked behind her hair, close enough that he can tell she wears green apple shampoo.
“Hey,” says Betty, shaking him out of his trance, “since Greendale is new to you, how about we go out for dinner? Polly and I found this little diner with the best onion rings during our last visit here.”
As if on cue, Jughead’s stomach rumbles, and Betty snorts a little in laughter.
“The way to a man’s heart,” she quips.
Well, Jughead considers, she's not wrong .
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According to Betty’s memory, the diner isn't far away, so they walk. Him with his hands dug into his pockets, her with her perky ponytail—he wonders if they look like an odd pair. Duo. Team. Whatever . Stereotypically, loners like him shouldn't like cheerleaders like her. It doesn't fit in with the narrative.
But someone's clearly skewed up this story, because he thinks she looks good when she's happy, hands gesturing, mouth tilted upwards, eyes bright. The world is officially on it's right axis when Elizabeth Cooper is happy. Or at least, Jughead’s world.
“Do you remember fourth grade? When I made you dress up as Ned Nickerson for Midge Klump’s birthday party?”
Jughead grins. “ My favourite is third grade Halloween. You as Dorothy, me as the Tin Man, Archie as the Lion?”
“Vegas was Toto,” Betty recalls, eyes lit in delight. “You were such a cute Tin Man.”
“Because every teenager wants to be known as cute,” Jughead says wryly.
“I do,” insists Betty indignantly.
She's kidding. He knows that. But the words slip out anyway.
“Okay then, Betty Cooper, you're very cute. Now, are we talking Pop’s-level fries or just above average fries at this so-called diner?”
The tips of his ears might be turning a bit pink, but she's smiling down at the pavement, so he's calling it a win.
“Nothing beats Pop’s. But this is a pretty close second,” she says, and increases her pace a little. “Come on.”
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Betty was right—the diner did serve delectable food, and they return back to the hotel room feeling happily satisfied. He flops on the bed as soon as they get in, and Betty stands by the door, watching him with an amused smile.
“Are you finally full?”
“Do you really want the answer to that?” he asks, eyebrows raising, and she laughs, reaching into her pocket to check her phone.
“It's Veronica,” she says apologetically.
Jughead waves at her. “Answer it. I'll get ready for bed.”
He slips into the bathroom, glances at himself in the mirror, and removes his beanie. It's only then that it hits him. Get ready for bed. Bed… with Betty. Adorable, girl next door Betty Cooper, with her sweet stubbornness and her blue eyes. Archie’s Betty. Betty’s Archie. It's been that way since they were kids, and he'd accepted that he'd eventually be the weird godfather to a bunch of strawberry blonde children. But now, he's realising… Betty hasn't mentioned Archie all day. And maybe it's infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, but it feels like something .
“...with Jughead,” comes Betty’s faint voice. “No. I don't know. Not everything in life is a rom-com, V.”
Jughead gets changed, stuffs his clothes into his bag, and leaves the bathroom. Betty smiles at him when she spots him.
“Okay. Uh-huh. Bye, Ronnie.” Betty cups the speaker with one hand and holds the phone out. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Me?” Jughead blinks. Him and Veronica have never exactly been very close. They’ve always had Betty or Archie as buffers between them. Besides, wrong-footed guys and Daddy’s girls don't really mix. Then again, he doesn't think either of them fit into those moulds anymore. He accepts the phone.
“Hey… Veronica,” he says awkwardly. Betty rolls her eyes at him and then disappears into the bathroom. After a moment, he hears the shower start up.
“Jess Mariano,” Veronica greets. “How's our girl?”
“Fine. Determined to get to the bottom of all this.”
“Well, that's Betty,” says Veronica, a touch softer. Jughead sinks down on the couch and fights a small smile, just in the off-chance that Veronica can somehow detect it over the phone and pick it apart.
“Sure is.”
“So,” says Veronica after a moment, “I hear you two are sharing a bed.”
“Oh, wow ,” says Jughead, the characteristic annoyance spilling in before he can stop it. “Look, Veronica, it's a bed, and it was this or she'd cast herself onto the floor. It's exactly the same as if you and Betty were sharing it.”
“Yeah,” says Veronica with a knowing lilt. “Except I'm not half as in love with Betty as you are.”
He falls silent. He fixes his gaze firmly on a loose piece of thread hanging from Betty’s coat jacket. He's a little afraid of speaking, maybe because his throat has gone dry.
“Oh,” says Veronica again, after a moment. “I was half joking, but I’m guessing that silence means…”
“Don't say anything to her,” he interrupts.
“I—of course, Jughead. But don't you think that you should—”
Jughead panics. He ends the call, and stares at the phone for a little while. Eventually, Betty pokes her head around the bathroom door, a fluffy white towel curled around her damp hair.
“What did Veronica say?”
“Some very unsettling truths,” he mutters, and veers sharply off into a different topic.
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It's a bed. It's a bed, and a dear friend, and it doesn't mean anything. It's like a little mantra, saved up just for him, and it's stupid, and degrading, and portrays him as just like every other abstract teenager in this cliche world, but it's there. It's happening. Betty Cooper is crawling under the covers right next to him.
She smells very clean, like standardised complimentary hotel shampoo and sprinkled vanilla fragments, and she's wearing a singlet and some shorts, and they both curl up on opposite sides of the bed, as far away as possible.
But he's got long limbs, and eyes that are too observant, and she's too close . There's something strangely intimate about sharing a bed with someone. Or maybe, it's just sharing a bed with Betty that does the trick.
She tucks her hands under her cheek and blinks at him, a little nervously.
“Hey,” she whispers, “is this weird?”
“Nah,” he says, because it's not , strangely enough. It's new, and a little awkward, like new shoes you haven't broken in yet, but it's nice . Soft, in a way he might get used to. Betty's sweet, and clean, and he's already half in love with her. It could be much worse.
“Good,” she says, and smiles at him, a little lopsidedly from the angle of her head. “Night, Juggy.”
“Night, Betts.”
He reaches over and turns out the light.