Chapter 1: The Rivers Edge

In the hours after midnight, when the grey wraith of fog crept along it's streets, Riverdale resembled a ghost town. The neon shine of Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe was a single sliver of life in the desolate surroundings – and without it, those passing through would have certainly mistaken the town as abandoned.

It was during this time, before dawn broke, that Jughead Jones III felt most relaxed. Usually the sole patron of the diner, Jughead could be found sprawled across an entire booth, battered sneakers kicked off to the side and face buried so deeply behind a laptop screen that the area beneath his nose was erased. Save for the sound of his fingers flying against keys, and the sporadic clatter and chime of Pop polishing cutlery, the soda shop was quiet and still.

It reminded Jughead instinctively of home – back when his mother had been awake all hours of the night, scurrying around their living room in search of empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, and burger wrappers that needed disposing. A veritable exorcist, ridding her husband's demons from sight. Ever the insomniac, Jughead had often drifted in-and-out of slumber to the noisy chorus of glassware colliding in the trashcan.

When Pop appeared to clear the stack of dishes beside him, Jughead closed his eyes, buried his spine into the booth's cushions, and pretended he was in bed – the chink of china striking china was just Jellybean rummaging through their kitchen, pursuing a plate big enough to hold all her midnight snacks. This was not the first time he had done this – nor would it be the last. Much like a baby craved the soothing notes of a lullaby, Jughead longed to fall asleep listening to the sounds of his family. Though he knew it was foolish to do so, Jughead pretended that he would awake to find himself in his bedroom, and maybe if he just squeezed his lashes tight enough together –

The bell at Pop's counter clanged, loud and shrill, spearing Jughead's reverie. His eyes snapped wide open and landed on the only sight more welcome than his room: Betty Cooper. Stencilled in the entryways florescent lighting, she appeared so pale – shockingly white except for the unnatural blush on her cheeks. Being so ashen, the carnation-pink of her lips, the green of her eyes, and her golden halo of hair – which Jughead suddenly longed to thread his fingers through – seemed ethereally bright, unnaturally contrasted. For one mad, fleeting moment he believed he was looking at an angel.

Betty hadn't spotted him yet and rather than making his presence known, Jughead watched her intently. To someone on the outside, it would have appeared that he was checking her out – long legs, pretty face, a slight figure – but that was far from the truth. Rather, Jughead was mentally cataloguing all the ways in which this scene was wrong. Specious, even. Elizabeth Cooper did not spend the hours following the semi-formal at a diner of all places – she spent them gossiping at Kevin's place, or at an after-party, or on her doorstop, chastely kissing a football player goodnight.

Order placed, Betty turned, appraised the tables, and then locked eyes with him. "Jughead," she exclaimed, frowning. Sharp lines cropped up on her forehead. "What are you doing here?"

Hurt prickled inside Jughead. He wasn't an idiot – he knew his feelings for Betty were entirely one-sided, that Archie Andrew's hold on her affections was iron-clad. He knew that despite missing her the way a sailor aches for the sea, Betty had spent her time in Los Angeles numb to his absence. He had thought though, perhaps misguidedly, that upon returning home she would at least be pleased to see him.

"I missed you too, Betts," Jughead began sardonically, raising his eyebrows at her; for a split-second they vanished beneath his fringe. "How was my summer?" He paused and pointed at himself, all exaggerated movements, slowly and deliberately. "There's nothing much to report but thanks for asking. Although I do think The Coneheads would have been impressed by my cheeseburger consumption."

Betty sighed and slipped into the seat across from him, her dress crinkling around her thighs. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that," she said contritely. "It's just late and I wasn't expecting to see you here," she paused to fold her hands into her lap. "Or anyone, for that matter."

Jughead blinked and drew back a little. "Sorry to disappoint," he muttered, more to the sprinkling of crumbs on the tabletop than the blonde in front of him.

"No, no," Betty began with a shake of her head, "I'm glad you're here." Wringing her fingers together, she added: "My mind is just all over the place tonight."

"I can see that," Jughead told her. Seeing Betty's puzzled expression, he gestured at her outfit. "You mistook Pop's for the semi-formal."

Betty tugged the edges of her skirt defensively. "Oh, be quiet," she said, smiling. "I know I'm slightly overdressed."

"And Thorn Hill is just slightly big," Jughead joked, pinching the air between his thumb and index finger.

Betty stared at him pointedly; her eyes were huge and grey in the booth's dull light, barely tinged with green. "You're the one who always says this place needs a dress-code."

"Yes, one that stops varsity players and cheerleaders," Jughead clarified. Expression turning thoughtful, he pursed his lips together. "Perhaps Pop's should prohibit anyone wearing blue and gold from entering?"

"That won't work," Betty disagreed; Jughead cocked his head, perplexed. "Haven't you heard the news – I'm a River Vixen now."

Eyes closed in a silent plea, Jughead begged his brain to focus on something besides Betty dressed as a River Vixen – to picture anything except how jaw-dropping her legs would appear in a cheerleading skirt. His prayers went unanswered. Unable to control his imagination, Jughead unravelled; his stomach seized, his cheeks erupted scarlet, his mouth dried into sandpaper…

Collecting himself, Jughead cleared his throat. Noisily. "Because Betty Cooper doesn't have enough extra-curricula's already," he replied hoarsely, rolling his eyes at her. Breath easing back into his lungs, he added: "And no, I hadn't heard."

"And what does Jughead Jones know about extra-curricula's?" Betty asked, unable to keep a slight edge of disapproval from her tone. "Last time I checked, you were doing a grand total of zero."

"It's called balancing out the universe," Jughead said. "With you around, someone has to slack off."

It was Betty's turn to roll her eyes. "Right," she said in disbelief. "You're being lazy for my benefit. I should have known."

Jughead gave a half-shrug. "Doubt me all you want, Betts. I'm just trying to keep the world from imploding."

"More like hell from freezing over," Betty retorted, her hand wound in a curl of her hair.

Jughead's reply was interrupted by a brunette waitress, who had materialised seconds earlier with Betty's order: one extra-large chocolate sundae. He eyed the toppling mountain of whipped-cream, maple syrup, fudge sauce, peanuts, and god-knows-what else in amusement. "There's been a mistake," he mocked, voice solemn. "There's meant to be ice-cream in that."

Betty's stare swung between her sundae and Jughead. "There is," she paused to pluck the spoon from beside her. Waving it half-heartedly over the spire of toppings, she continued: "It's just underneath all this." There was a beat of silence in which Jughead remained still – waiting – until realisation struck. Betty groaned. "And that was the joke…which went completely over my head."

"I'm sure someone in Greendale caught it," Jughead told her. Then, he reached over, snatched a single glazed cherry from her bowl and popped it on his tongue.

Betty sighed. "Sure," she grumbled. "Just help yourself."

Brazen-faced and grinning, Jughead grabbed a napkin. "If you insist," he said slyly. After swallowing his second mouthful of Betty's dessert, Jughead smacked his lips together and appraised his spoon musingly, spinning it between his fingers as he spoke, "Betts, I'm not convinced on the toppings you've chosen. I mean, did you really need peanuts, sprinkles and maple syrup?" He paused the spoon mid-twirl. "Seems a bit much."

Betty opened her mouth and then closed it. Finally, after setting her chin, she said: "Did you really just critique my sundae order?"

"Riverdale has experienced enough tragedy as of late," Jughead said. "There's no need to add your dessert choices to the list if we can help it."

Betty inspected her sundae with knitted brows. "You don't think tragedy is a slight exaggeration?"

Jughead shook his head. "Hardly. Shakespeare could write sonnets about this topping combination." A sigh fell from his lips. "Peanuts, sprinkles, and maple syrup," he repeated. "Really?"

Swallowing a dollop of whipped-cream, Betty glared at him. "You know, I don't remember ordering your opinion."

"Why didn't you tell me it was on the menu?" Jughead deadpanned, using his spare hand to adjust his beanie as he spoke. "Here I've been dishing it out for free."

After that, they were quiet for a time, their cutlery clinking loudly against the side of the bowl as they took turns grabbing a spoonful of ice-cream. When the bowl was almost half-empty, Betty spoke up. "Your genius is wasted on food. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Jughead smirked lopsidedly at her, the angles of his face devilish. "Did you just call me a genius?"

"I'm being serious, Juggie," Betty told him earnestly between mouthfuls. Closing the space between them, she leant forward and propped her head onto her elbows, palms facing upwards and gripping her cheeks. "If you spent half as much time studying as you did eating fries, you could rank higher in our classes than Dilton Doiley."

Jughead hesitated. How could he tell her? How could he explain that his grades didn't matter – that he could barely scrounge enough money for lunch, let alone college tuition. "Maybe," he conceded eventually, jaw cinched. Bitterness sprang to life in his chest and, as usual, found its escape in a snarky comment. "I'll stick his yearbook photo up on my wall so I have someone to idolize. I'd wager Doiley is a better choice than Garfield."

"Garfield?" Betty prompted, cocking her head to the side.

"You know the ginger cat from the comics?" Jughead asked, slow and derisive. He set his spoon down. "Lazy, cynical, obsessed with eating…" Here, he counted to three with his pale, slender fingers. "I'm sure you've heard of him."

Betty made a face at him. "You can stop anytime you'd like," she said, reaching over and prodding a cluster of sprinkles with her spoon, clearly disheartened. "You've made your point."

And she had made hers, too, Jughead realised, joy dawning inside him. No one had ever believed in him before – him, Jughead Jones, a boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Not until now, not until Betty. Warmth spread through his body, straight down to his toes, sure and steady as a sunrise.

Suddenly, it seemed important to Jughead that Betty knew this. He inhaled sharply. "Betts –" The back of his throat collapsed; his voice sounded more vulnerable than he had ever heard. He was certain Betty could hear the beat of his heart behind that single syllable. Then, his resolve broke like a dam under too much pressure. Sinking back into his seat, Jughead deflected the conversation away from himself. "Let's discuss your hero – did you and Archie kiss and make up?"

Betty's face twisted, as if she'd been stung be a bee; her eyes hardened, darkening into mossy green. Palms clenched and lips taut, she leaned away from Jughead. "How did you – did Archie tell you what happened tonight?"

"Nothing specific. Just that you were pissed at him," Jughead told her flatly, stroking the nape of his neck.

"I was," Betty admitted. She took a shallow breath before adding, "I still am."

Jughead crossed and uncrossed his legs. "You two have been best friends for ages. Whatever it is, you'll figure it out," he reassured her.

"That's just it – Archie and I are best friends," Betty's voice cracked like glass. When she spoke again, her words trembled in the air between them. "We're just best friends. Archie made that crystal-clear tonight." She rolled her teeth over her lips, suddenly appearing nervous. "He said I was 'too perfect' – do you think that's true?"

Jughead remained silent for a moment. He could not recall seeing a lovelier face than Betty's – so finely cut, all high cheekbones and skin so white and clear it could have been sculpted from marble. If a face more exquisite existed in Riverdale, Jughead had not seen it. As for Archie, Jughead knew he likened her beauty to that of a porcelain doll: fragile in every line, breakable to the touch. Enough to admire from a distance, too delicate to ever hold.

"The concept of perfection is relative," Jughead told her finally, slow and even. "But to answer your question: yes and no." Betty's eyes searched his face, mystified; Jughead licked his lips, mulling over his next words carefully. "You have your flaws, Betty Cooper." A pause. His heart tripped over itself in anticipation for what he was about to say. "However, that doesn't mean you can't be perfect."

Betty blinked rapidly up at him, her lashes golden rain as they darted back and forth. Jughead watched a blush blossom on her cheeks, delicate and petal-pink. "I'm not sure I really follow," she murmured at last.

Jughead toyed with the cuffs on his jacket. "All I'm trying to say is that Archie Andrews is an imbecile," he said whilst tugging a thread loose.

"Am I terrible best friend if I agree with you?"

"I'll give you a free-pass tonight."

"How generous of you," Stifling a yawn, Betty stood up and smoothed the creases from her dress. Glancing at her watch and then back at Jughead, she said: "It's half-past three, I should really head off."

"A whole eight hours past your bedtime," Jughead teased. "What's next – a tattoo?"

"What's next is sleep," Betty informed him, shifting from one foot to another. "Try not to dehydrate with all that humour of yours while I'm gone."

"I'll take drink plenty of water just for you," Jughead said, mouth stretched wide in a grin.

At that, Betty exited the booth, her heels clicking against the tiled floor. She paused abruptly when she passed him. "Juggie," she began, a tender lilt softening her tone. Angling herself over the row of seats, she gave his forearm a gentle squeeze. "I'm really glad you were here tonight."

"Me too, Betts."