title: the clouds come and go
genre: hurt/comfort, romance
pairings: sweet pea/betty, past-jughead/betty
notes: Sweet Pea wants to take care of someone. Betty wants a little TLC. also, this fic is inspired by SunlitGarden's "I'm poison in your bones" on AO3, check it out.
This night has not gone according to plan.
Betty is standing in the parking lot of the Whyte Wyrm, the gravel under her sensible heels making her wobble with every step she takes, her bare legs attracting creeping cold. She can feel the tears welling in her throat because—because he doesn't want her. Again. After everything. Everything.
First, her dance did not quite go according to plan. She planned to do her dance at the height of the party, with less eyes and a more upbeat song, something with some synth maybe. But, Archie and Veronica had an issue, so naturally Betty swoops in to try an salvage their stage, but it became a loosing game of striptease to some track from Donnie Darko.
Then, F.P. Jones decided to become King of the Serpents again, against his parole as well as Jughead's wishes.
Then, of course, Jughead—
Jughead who—
Who—
Betty suppresses another shiver and tries to gather up the courage to go back into the Wyrm to find her purse, but the fear of the embarrassment and jeers and Toni's sympathetic gaze makes her want to try to find a way home without it. Damn her emergency credit card, debit card, and student ID, she just wants to go home—
She takes a breath, wraps her arms around her shoulders and barrels into someone coming out.
"There you are." She bumps into a tall, toned chest and immediately steps back. She tilts her chin and looks up at the Serpent towering over her, broad shoulders and neck tattoo. She puzzles over him a moment, the dark eyes, slicked back hair, Cupid's bow mouth, and she thinks—maybe—she knows him. But, can't place him.
"Do I know you?"
He cracks his jaw.
It's an effortless, vaguely threatening gesture, like he's too deep in thought—
He extends a hand to her. "Sweet Pea." He says. No preamble, no "name's Pete, but most people call me Sweet Pea" song and dance, just the name—nickname, her mind supplies as she wraps her fingers around his. His palms are rough, big, warm. "C'mon. Let's get you a drink."
It strikes her that between the name and invitation that she needs more information.
"Oh, I'm underage." She says automatically, and winces. Probably the wrong thing to say in a bar, a bar she's been to before. Scratch that, a bar she is currently at. She can see the rest of this interaction playing out before her: his amusement, her embarrassment, and then a couple more tears in the bathroom.
The Serpent—Sweet Pea—just shrugs. "Well, Toni's on bar tonight and I'm seventeen."
"Did Toni send you to get me?"
He blinks. "Uh, no?"
Silence.
The blue neon sign above them casts a shadow over his face, bringing the high points of his cheekbones and nose into sharp focus. His eyes are on her, frustrated. "Look," he says and scratches the back of his neck. "Just, just come in for a drink and relax. It's . . . been a hell of a night."
Betty shifts one foot to another. "Well, I lost my purse . . ."
"Oh, Toni's got it, I think. I saw it by her jacket."
"Okay."
Before she knows it, she's sitting at the bar, an Old Fashion in hand since she didn't feel like she could handle Tequila just yet. Maybe someday she could walk into a bar with confidence and say "hold the worm" but she doubts it.
The alcohol burns like fire against her tongue when she takes a drink. She almost vomits right then and there. Part of her almost longs for Veronica's sweet martinis with sugar-rimmed glasses.
The kind of drinks that seem out of place in a dive.
Sweet Pea is talking to the guys around him, but he hangs close to her like she needs him. His fingers drum against his rum and Coke, each downward motion tap-tap-tapping his heavy rings against the glass. "So, what do you go by?" He asks suddenly, his lips too close to her ear. She turns her face. He's just close enough so she doesn't have to shout.
"Betty." She says and hears his hum of amusement.
"Alright," he introduces her to his friends, they buy her shots. Toni slides her a vodka and lemonade, electric blue with a lime. Her smile is almost genuine, not pitying, not sheepish. "I can't drink that stuff." She says and whisks away the glass Betty had been nursing. "This is a good starter drink."
She takes a tentative sip of the new drink and licks her lip. It's good.
Then there's another voice in her ear that asks, "Ever had a Bald Pussy?"
Since that turns out to be a shot—a really, really good one—she has three in rapid succession, one with Fangs, one with Toni, and one with Sweet Pea. Then her new best friend is tugging at her elbow and asking if she can dance.
She is thinking about dancing on the bar-top when Sweet Pea's hand closes around her wrist. "Alright princess, let's get you home."
"I'm not usually like this," she slurs and nearly falls off the barstool for her trouble. Sweet Pea steadies her and the two of them are making their way across the floor of the Whyte Wyrm.
"I know, kid, everyone says that." She's annoyed and too Bambi-legged to put up much resistance. He whistles to some guy behind the bar who hands him a set of keys. "Let's just get you home, drink a couple glasses of water and sleep it off."
"It's a school night," she whines and then realizes how stupid that sounds. In a bar, no less. Then, she thinks about things like hangovers and alcohol poisoning and her fingers curl into Sweet Pea's jacket, against where his shirt his sweat-damp against his side. She looks up at him, heat rising to her cheeks. "I think I'm going to be sick."
Sweet Pea's liquid eyes turn panicked. "Oh fuck!"
And then, well Betty is not quite sure but Sweet Pea swings her up in what she can only whimsically call a princess carry and then proceeds to barrel towards the back of the bar towards the restrooms. After that it's a vague mix of doors kicking in, some screaming, some spinning and then the feeling of his hands in her hair, gathering her curls against the nap of her neck as the smell of toilet water, then urine, then stomach acid rush up to meet her—
She is leaning across the sink to look into the mirror, swishing water around her mouth when she realizes that Sweet Pea brought her into the guys restroom. She can feel humiliation burning her cheeks as she washes her hands, once, twice, and spits.
"I am so sorry—" She's saying when Sweet Pea shakes his head at her in the mirror. He is standing like a leather-clad bouncer by the door, turning away anyone that's trying to come in, much to the chagrin of probably half the bar. "Really sorry."
"It's alright." He says. "Just get cleaned up and we can go."
She rinses her mouth again and looks into her own eyes.
She has weirdly dark eyes tonight; dark eyes, wispy hair, flushed, rosy cheeks—
She's drunk.
Vomiting has does nothing to remove that fuzzy, spinning feeling and the pleasant warmth that flushes through her. "I'm drunk," she says quietly, almost too quietly, and when she looks up—head spinning—Sweet Pea is staring at her. She wants to laugh, but taps that down.
"You gonna throw up again?"
"No."
"Good, okay, let's go."
He tugs her out of the bathroom and there's cheering. Why is there cheering? Sweet Pea shouts something over his shoulder as he pulls Betty to stand in front of him, cutting through the crowd with his hands on her shoulders as they steer towards the door—
F.P. Jones steps into her view when they breech the pool tables. Which Betty thinks is funny for some reason. Where has he been?
"What are you doing here, Betty? I thought you left with your mom." Betty leans back against Sweet Pea's chest and shrugs.
"You're son's a right bastard, Mr. Jones."
F.P. Jones looks as though she has grown a second head and he pins Sweet Pea with an incredulous look.
Sweet Pea sighs heavily behind her, his breath puffing against her cheek. "She's had a couple. I'm taking her home."
F.P. Jones' brows tug together, kind of like Jughead's. "Not on your bike you're not."
Sweet Pea raises his hand. "Hog Eye gave me his keys. I'll drop her off and be right back."
F.P. studies them a moment, sweeping from Betty's limbed stance and sighs. "Drop her off. Be back by three. I don't want Alice Cooper marching down here razing the place, got it?"
Sweet Pea must have gotten it because F.P. finally lets them leave.
Betty is having some trouble getting into the car.
It's not the exact logistics of it is what's making it difficult. It's more of the implication—going home, admitting defeat, Jughead not loving her. She's back to the start, where she began a couple hours ago, crying in the parking lot, gravel making her steps sink and fold.
"Fuckin' hell," Sweet Pea grabs her as she almost tumbles again and regrettably she grips onto his jacket, fingers digging in. "Tell me if you're going to vomit again, okay? Hog Eye will literally rip me a new one if you throw up in his car!"
And then she's thinking of how Jughead must see her, how they all must see her. A princess. Pink Perfection. Can't hold her liquor. Can't walk across gravel in heels. Can't handle crazy.
"I'm not—" She gasps, the sick feeling in her stomach twisting her up. "I'm not this."
"Yeah, I got that princess, now let's get you home."
Betty shoves him. "No."
The hand on her shoulder gets more insistent. "No?"
"Don't—don't take me home."
". . . do you want to stay at Toni's? Or, ugh fine, you can stay on my couch? I guess? If you don't want to go home, I mean."
She narrows her eyes up at him, confusion pooling her mind. "I don't want to go anywhere."
That annoyed look is back. "Well, you have to go somewhere."
Betty shakes her head, blonde curls whipping around her. "Not until you understand."
"Understand what, Barbie?"
"No! But I mean," She pushes against him to have some space and to her great surprise, he lets her. "I'm not a pink perfection." He raises a brow at her, his confusion obvious.
"Alright."
"No, I mean. I'm—I'm crazy. I am batshit crazy. When I want to be. My family's crazy. You know, I've broken into buildings before, right? I've faced off against serial killers, monsters, and football players. You know, sometimes, I don't understand why he thinks I can't understand crazy too. Why does no one think I can handle a little weird? I'm a reporter, I do my research. I get it, okay?"
Sweet Pea studies her again, this time as if really seeing her. Not in the red-light, shedding her skin, or flushed on a barstool, but teary-eyed and desperate, her lip bleeding from her teeth and her hands shaking in the cold.
"Alright." He says.
"What?"
"Alright, Cooper. I get it."
She blinks. "Get what?"
He gives he one utter annoyed, elongated sigh. "Look, just get in the car and I'll—"
"No."
"—I'll take you to that restaurant between the here and the Northside, okay? Pop's. They're still open, right?"
It takes her a second, a moment, to translate what he's saying through the slur of her own mind. She nods. Pop's is still open, will be open until three a.m., and it's already encroaching on two, if that clock in the bar was correct. She nods again, surer of herself this time.
"We can sit and you can tell me how crazy you are, alright?"
And that sounds, well, not better.
But it's the best she's going to get.
"Fine."
"Alright," Sweet Pea makes a gesture to the passenger side again, like Prince Charming offering Cinderella her pumpkin carriage. It feels oddly disjointed for a moment, but she slips inside, buckles up, and then Sweet Pea slips in beside her, turns over the engine and cranks the stereo loud.
She is pretty sure she has sat in this exact booth hundreds of times. With her mom and Polly after dance practice, with her dad after a root canal, with Archie and Jughead, then Veronica. It feels sacred, and strange to have someone else sitting in the spot that might occupy any familiar face, but Sweet Pea thinks nothing about sliding into the vinyl seat across from her and pulling out a menu.
The night-staff waitress brings them both cups of coffee, but while Betty's trying to figure out the creamer situation, she disappears again and doesn't return for ten minutes. "Better be quick." Sweet Pea warns, studying the menu intently as if it were battle plans. "Vickie's not too keen on gawkers and whiners."
When Vickie returns, they give their orders and still, she leaves without offering any creamer. "Probably for the best," Sweet Pea says as he leans back on his end. "Just drink it and wash it down with water, it might sober you."
"You do this a lot?" She asks and sniffs the black coffee. It's strong and sharp in her nose. She's usually about sweet things like caramel macchiatos and light blends, heavy creamers and sugars. She plucks a sugar packet from the holder and taps it with her finger. "Late nights at Pop's?" She elaborates.
"Only time the Northsiders won't hassle me for enjoying my food." He says blithely and takes a long drink.
She's got nothing to combat that.
She wraps her fingers around her mug, allowing the warmth to burn her palms, ignoring the protest of the fresh crescent-cuts singing against the ceramic. She closes her eyes and inhales the scent of fresh coffee, black, just how Jughead like it. Just like how his mouth tasted each morning before school.
She shivers at the memory.
"You cold?" She looks up at him, and slowly uncurls her fingers from her mug to press them against her chilly, bare knees. For one terrifying, horrifying moment, she thinks he might peel off the jacket that he wears like a uniform and pass it to her, give her a leather-cocoon all her own.
"No, I'm fine. Thank you."
"I see your manners are back." Sweet Pea leans back, his arms cross in front of him on the table and she has a chance to assess him. His hands, big and callous, scarred and adorn with rings. She studies the hills of his knuckles, the bruises on his fingers, consistent against the ridge.
She knows those bruises.
"You wear brass-knuckles?"
"Sometimes." He offers nothing else, and Betty's not quite sure she wants to ask.
"So, do you often give rides to Northsiders who make fools of themselves at Serpent parties?"
He clucks his tongue, "Am I being interviewed, Miss Journalist?"
He takes another long drink of his coffee, nearly draining the cup. When he sets it down, she can see the dregs settling at the bottom, collecting into shapes and symbols for readings. Or is that only tea leaves? She wonders and sets down the mug, creating another ring overlapping the previous one.
Sweet Pea taps his ringed knuckles against the counter, a nervous, quick rap.
He has Betty's attention.
"Listen, I don't have many rules, okay? But the Serpents are my life, and I don't know what your little boyfriend told you, but," Sweet Pea levels his stare on her. "If you do the dance, you're in. That's how it worked for generations, that's how it's done now. You're a Serpent, Cooper."
That is—
Not what she's expecting.
She wonders if she's still drunk.
"What?"
"It's a family, Cooper. So, I help you, and then you help me. That's how this works."
Betty does not quite get the time to panic as much as she wants to when Vickie sets two plates of pancakes in front of them and Sweet Pea drops a couple of bills on the table. "Check, too. Thanks."
He drops her off in front of her house—full on: pull into the driveway, radio tuned down, looks at her—and she sits for a moment, studying the line of the curtains and the security lights. She's not an idiot. She knows her mom will be waiting up for her, and there would be Hell to pay in the morning too, but for a moment, she just wants to sit.
Sweet Pea does not offer her his jacket when they sat at Pop's, not after their meal, or second cup of coffee, and not on the walk back to the car, but when they settled in the bed of the truck, he turned the heater up to hell and kept it that way until she was nice and toasty.
Sweet Pea glances at her after an uncomfortable beat. "Well?" She meets his gaze and is shocked for a moment by how close he is, how close she is, and shifts back, nervously.
"She's going to kill me."
"Will she bury you under the house or in the quarry?" He asks and a surprised laugh tilts his voice. Something delighted lit in his tone makes him sound teasing . . . almost. "Maybe she'll find a way to blame the Southside?"
Betty attempts to muster her best glare, but it's weak at best. "Are you going to keep making digs at my mother?"
"Depends," he says. "How long are you gonna sit out here with me?"
She sits for a moment, jaw tight and fingers biting into her palms, nails dragging across the fresh scabs. The tinge of pain breaks her from her reverie, just a little, just enough. The rush of it all makes the tension under her skin hot and rush.
"Fine," she mutters and unclicks her seatbelt, her hand reaches for the door handle and yanks the latch. Sweet Pea's hand on her elbow stops her. "What?"
"Should I keep the car running? In case you need an escape?" There's a smile curling at his mouth, but some part of her thinks he might actually be serious. The journalist in her, the one that likes to prod and poke and question and take-down, wonders if that is common Thursday evening (Friday morning) routine for him.
"No," she says quietly, the thanks and that's sweet but and why do you ask lie silent on her tongue. "This is my mess, I'll pick it up myself." His hand, heavy and warm, falls away from her arm and she steps out into the cool, blue night, the edges of early morning and dew clinging to the edges of her senses.
She leans down to look into the car again, meeting Sweet Pea's steady gaze. She is not quite sure what to say, her own mounting embarrassment seems payment enough, but Betty was raised better than that. She flashes the tiniest of smiles and offers a quiet, "See you around?"
To which, he replies, "Sooner than you think."
Betty is moving too quickly to really think about the Serpents, or the boy, or what happened tonight. Her mind is full of thoughts of curfews, underage drinking, and having to wake up in a couple hours for a full day of school—
But she looks back before she goes inside.
He waits for her to get into the house. She thinks she almost hears him scoff when she grabs the key under the mat and when she's goes inside, she stands in the cool quiet of the living room and shuts the door, locking it behind her.
hello, what is impulse control?
i just felt like i physically had to post this because a) i love SweetBee, 2) i seek validation, and finally) i really, really like this AU. This AU, in which, is inspired by SunlitGarden's "I'm poison in your bones" which is an AMAZING Bughead fic with a spicy dash of SweetBee. So, I am writing my own SweetBee and trying to move past the poetry of that fic.
so, i may post this in one-shot-but-connected-style? just a way to quickly update because i have zero time and lots of fic left
please review, i love knowing lines you liked, thoughts you had, ideas you have, and criticism you may have (that makes the world go around),
- cafeanna