There's been a week of summer rain recently and it reminded me of the endless free days I spent in my room listening to the weather softly intensify until it eventually became silent. Combine that with the half-idea I got before falling asleep along with the wonderful raptorlily needing a good dose of fluff… you get this little one shot.
I also recommend two songs for this read (my classic favorites) both by Jimmy Durante: As Time Goes By …. or ….. Make Someone Happy.
Hope you enjoy.
"You must remember this,
a kiss is still a kiss,
A sigh is just a sigh,
The fundamental things apply,
as time goes by….
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by"
- Jimmy Durante
Usually she notices the change, the empty lull outside to the soft pitter-patter of droplets catching the side of her roof. Despite its subtlety, the shift to rain was a simple pleasure she anticipated and it was almost second nature the way her ear would catch its sound - even if she was lost in the middle of humming a tune on the other side of the room. When the weather came she'd surrender her given task to curl up along the cushioned seat and lift the window for the expected breath of cleansing air that was always sure to follow. Sometimes during her rainy watch, a book was brought along or an empty page in her journal was filled to add another comfort as the shower became too heavy or eventually skittered away.
It was entirely possible that she had picked up the weather-coordinated routine from one of her many idealized fictional heroines – the cliché strong yet sensitive girl who relished in the minimalistic pleasures of rain and reading - it was something she had been doing for so long that the original source was already forgotten. Not to mention she had found a new explanation, or reason, for the habit with relation to her constantly frayed nerves. Listening to the nearly silent patterns of an early rain was definitely healthier than a method that relied on the tips of her nails.
Whatever the reason, and despite it being a casual change in the weather, it was always a rare chance for soothing in her life which she never liked to miss.
Yet, as Betty's attention snaps to the relentless rattling pour echoing through her ceiling and then to the darkened shadow of clouds peeking through the window's glass, she realizes, that for the first time, she missed it.
"Jeez, the rain really picked up."
The voice makes it too clear where the source of her distraction lies: on the same cushioned seat she would have enjoyed the start of this now viciously pouring rain.
Jughead has been perched, and slightly squished, obstructing half of her window view from its seat for the past hour, and excluding the harsh way he tapped the spacebar of his (adorably) stickered laptop between each word he wasn't doing anything that was particularly distracting.
They had been simply talking and typing together over the minuscule details of their last remaining articles for the Blue and Gold. Despite the craziness of the past few days, to ensure the enduring life of their school newspaper, at least two readable articles were required by the end of the week. So, of course, she had invited him over, to finish their respective written work which she insisted was impossible to complete in the confines of the school or separately from their own homes.
Although it was obvious from the week's craziness - a now relocated runaway sister and an unjust detention at the station - the invite leaned more on the fact that she wasn't ready for him to go, and from the tight grip of his hand as they walked their way to her street, he had felt the same.
Jughead calmed the storm in a way a relaxing rain shower never could.
"Maybe this week we can skip the redundant weekly athlete worship," he begins again, bringing them back to their original discussion of "How mad will Weatherbee be if we skip this article for the week." She can't help but notice that along with a hint of humor there's some undertone of bitterness that bleeds out as he looks over the windows edge. "This drab weather is making me feel inspired, I can write some depressingly bad poem to fill the article space and when Weatherbee complains you can chock it up to my damaged teenage pains."
She can't keep a smile when his tone holds such an honest vulnerability for the previous days, but it's not exactly an offer for her to prod it, so she takes a different approach instead.
"Or we could switch?" His eyes dart to her own and his brows relax as he loses the sarcastic flare for a more curious show. She shifts her legs off her bed before continuing. "You could take my article. Write something passionately sour about the lunch choices this week and then I'll take your sports report," she offers.
He smirks with amusement and turns down to the white glow of the laptop screen. "You know… I think I'll take you up on that offer."
There's a stroke of keys along with a heavy swipe of rain blowing against the window pane before the ding of an email notification pops onto her laptop screen with its subject.
Betty Cooper my jock-writing savior.
She laughs and sends her own half-filled word document about the weekly meat selection with a corresponding subject.
Jughead Jones my roast beef Romeo.
She watches his face after she hits send and feels a small success as he smiles almost bashfully at the opened message.
As they settle back to work with a few, completely necessary, pauses for banter - she needs to sneer at his atrocious first draft grammar even if he'll whine for a victim card - it's becoming apparent how their usual is so different from the usual.
While the scene before her is almost a cookie cutter parallel of the times Archie had positioned himself in the same location, minus the draping suspenders poking into her sight from the pillows and the cute look of a beanie slightly askew, the concept is relatively the same.
She's barely finished the first sentence of her article's outline before she's trying to scope out the reason as to why. Why is it different?
As Nancy Drew would suggest, she lays out the obvious facts.
Jughead's a boy. Obviously.
She likes him. Obviously.
He likes her, which was thankfully obvious, and probably the first thing that's different in this boy liking scenario. It just feels like there's more to it than that.
She taps two fingers between the "e" and "f" keys so a string of "ef" flickers along the end of her article's starting fragment. Maybe she has to make the last fact slightly more obvious.
Jughead likes her.
It's simple but it settles around her like the steady falling rain outside and the guarantee of its fresh breeze. The fact that it's Jughead…
A groan emits from her side as the boy in question reaches an arm back behind his neck for a stretch once again making her tear attention from the screen. She wanders over the moving wrinkles of his shirt, only visible from the open space of his denim jacket, watching his muscle stretch under the fabric. He's settling into a more relaxed position, back sinking deep into the seat forcing a foot to hang over the floor. Seeing him at such a rare ease makes her mind slip from its originally initiative, that is, until she spots them.
Two blue button eyes.
Completely in view, not even attempting to be hidden, and barely blending into the turquoise of her wall - which also means they're laying no less than an inch away from his foot dangling off the seat - the embarrassing kitten themed slippers with their scratched up eyes and calico patterns are for the first time fully exposed.
Her fingers freeze over the computer keys at the sight.
When it was Archie those cat slippers with the actual whiskers and ears were shoved under her bed to avoid the mortification that would arise if he knew she wore them.
Her vanity drawers were stuffed with every concealer and feminine product, so he wouldn't think about her using them.
Her clothes were carefully chosen and checked for holes so he would never think they had any.
And if she noticed an imperfection while he was there, such as a forgotten pair of slippers left in the open, a definite mad dash would have taken place to keep her secrets safe.
Every detail was evaluated, every word out of her mouth was calculated, and the time spent with Archie was sometimes hardly enjoyed because of Betty's mentally concocting for the steps of each scene to create the perfect opportunity. The opportunity for Archie to focus on just her, and then maybe she could be something to him.
Yet, now, there's no need for that focus, because it already is, and the usual pumping adrenaline to scramble for her childish, and slightly ratty slippers is nowhere to be found.
The fact that its Jughead, well, he may as well have been a part of her room from the beginning.
The slippers are sitting near him with ease, her vanity is overflowing with every piece of her daily makeup routine, and on her black leggings she even finds a skin colored hole by the knee.
She lets her vision wander back up to the pair of human blue eyes focusing below the black horizon line of a laptop, and she realizes it's unusual- how comfortable she feels.
The difference is she doesn't have to be different, with Jughead it's so easy to just be the same, and Nancy Drew should probably slap her for not seeing it sooner.
"Something amusing in the weekly jock appraisal?"
The murmuring noise of his keyboard has stopped and he's looking at her with sly attention. Her almost painfully raised cheeks take on a slight burn because he must have noticed the absence of typing from her end of the room and then, consequently, her lingering gaze.
The pathetically empty laptop screen catches the edge of her vision and she drops back to lay sprawled on the bed away from the pleased look painted on his face. "Can I call writer's block on this one?"
She hears the plastic creak of a shutting laptop. "Only if I can call an empty stomach as an excuse to stop writing mine. Besides, it was only a matter of time."
"A matter of time before what?" she asks with a raise of her head.
"Before I became a distraction in your work," he says with a dramatic lean onto his closed laptop with a single elbow.
The soft flutter in Betty's chest from her recently solved mystery does nothing to deter her from lodging a pillow at his head.
No blood is shed and he returns in kind with a soft frilly cushion that's whirled an inch from her nose.
The battle is short lived as Betty can't help but break into giggles and before she knows it Jughead has accumulated all the pillows from her bed.
He's looking rather smug in his nook while she's struggling to catch her breath when a bright camera like flash colors the room in white.
A crack that shudders the walls follows straight after.
"Probably should've headed back to Archie's before it got so bad…" Jughead sighs with slight defeat when the lightning's noise ends it resounding. "Guess this is where I sorrowfully say goodbye." He shuffles both legs out from the amalgam of pink cushions to the edge of the seat and reaches for the strap of his messenger bag. Betty straightens sharply. It had been hours but it still felt too soon for him to depart.
"Jug," she calls, gaining his attention. Her fingers find interest in a loose string by the hole of her pants as she struggles for an excuse to keep him. "I mean...obviously it's not a far walk even with the weather, but you could stay a bit, at least until it lets up. Archie's not home, right?"
He shifts up with his bag, but makes no move to pack his things away. "Yeah, he's out with Val tonight," he replies and she doesn't miss the way he watches her through the statement. "But I don't want to overstay my welcome, Betts."
She dismisses both of his ridiculous ideas, the said and the implied, with a roll of her eyes.
"Juggie, I invited you over. You're not overstaying my welcome and, believe it or not, I do enjoy your company," she laughs lightly to hopefully settle him. "Even if you are a distraction."
Whatever was weighing on him seems to lift as he gives a gently shrug of his shoulders at the consideration. She can feel her persuasion already pulling him in, and she can't help but offer some more bait.
"And if you're hungry I can heat something up for you." His brows raise at that. "There's leftovers in the fridge - chicken and rice or meatloaf from the other night... but there's probably enough stuff for me to make something new," she rattles off with a somewhat anxious loss of control.
Right now with the cuffs of his jeans only an arm's length away, the image of his dark blues and blacks contrasting the cushioned square of pinks and white, and the reassuring echo of his breath so close by Betty knows her offer of a heated meal is an obvious way for her prolong his stay.
Despite her ulterior motives it's still a sincere kindness, feeding Jughead was always a constant between them. Whether she picked up a bill at Pop's, albeit platonically at the time - or at least she thought it was platonically; the line of where things began between them is so fine she's a little unsure – or let him snatch a side from her lunch tray it was always something she was happy to do.
But there's also something new.
An almost desperation to give more than a plate of hot food. A desperation to stop him from soaking himself to the bone, to keep him from thinking about his own troubles at home, to make him feel comfortable and safe in the same way he has so easily done just by sitting in her room.
The thought brings her mind to a stuttering halt in time to notice a twitch around the skin of Jughead's right cheek that's always an early sign of his coming grin, and she feels a pause in her breath that's always an early sign that her chest will flutter from him.
But even with the relentless butterflies there's still that equally persistent drop in her stomach because for every comfort Jughead offers, Betty's starting to wonder if she gives any in return.
"Betts." He cuts smoothly into her tipping spiral."You're not trying to woo me into staying with you culinary willies are you?"
The suggestion is shy but his delight in it can't be hidden and she knows there was probably some dismissive line she had used a thousand times before. Directed at some red headed boy who was too oblivious to catch a hint even if she dropped it on a plate in front of him, but never did so she would keep any feelings out of show.
But this wasn't an attempt to please and this wasn't Archie. Instead, it's Jughead and it's exactly as his joke suggests and she wonders how he'd feel if she told him it was true.
When she feels the unrelenting grip of his hand as his fingers weave between hers as they walk the short distance through town, and he closes their distance to bump their shoulders with every short strut her heart constricts at peace no matter the surrounding insanity because it's such an obvious sign he doesn't want to let her go...so….
"Maybe I am, trying to make you stay, I mean."
She gives him the confession laced with words of playful uncertainty but her tone makes it clear there's no room for doubt.
His hands grab the edge of the cushioned seat by his hips and she almost thinks he's leaning forward in preparation to speak, until she realizes he's curling in.
Betty ignores the rumble and flash from outside and wipes her hands over the tops of her thighs before inching towards the headboard of the bed. Their legs are slightly closer and he watches as she sticks a foot out to nudge his own.
"Do you want to stay?"
His black sneaker nudges back, she hears him swallow.
"Yeah, I do… of course I do, I just-" he breaks off with a weak hand gesture and she takes the opportunity to reach forward and grab it in her own. He's already tangled their fingers in a tight unrelenting hold before she gets the chance when deflates with a sigh. "Not that I want to but...am I right in thinking there's no point in saying no?" The question ends with a smile.
"You're absolutely right, Jones," she beams and nearly tugs him off the seat as she bounds from the bed reaching for the pair of cat slippers submerged in pillows by his end. "Give me twenty minutes, I'll make us each a plate."
Jughead straightens as if to stand. "If it's just a microwave I'm pretty sure I can help..."
She shakes her head and waves a hand already heading for the door. "No, just relax. I've got it" with a tilt of her chin she directs him to her own laptop on the bed. "You could find something for us watch if you want, I'm done with writing for tonight."
He doesn't look entirely convinced but he reaches for her laptop anyway and Betty takes that as a good opportunity to escape down to the kitchen.
There's hardly a step toward the stairs when his voice calls her back.
"Are you sure you don't you need me to-"
She smiles and sings back a "It's fine Jughead!" before skipping two steps at a time down the stairs.
The second plate sits on the sensitive crescent shaped scars of her open palm for less than a second before they're begging to be free of the heat. Only the mouthwatering smell of gravy pouring over the pile of rice keeps her mood, or the plate, from dropping with the hot sting. The weight is also making the dish a little painful to carry if only because it's stacked with a full combination of the week's recent Cooper entrées – Jughead hadn't actually decided on chicken or beef so she decided on both – and she knows he always appreciates a large helping when it comes to food, but her poor wrist certainly doesn't.
She lets the cats around her feet playfully skitter along the kitchen floor to place the plate on the counter so she can search out a towel - which she spots on the handle of fridge and it sparks to memory that she should also grab them both drinks.
The fridge is opened for a quick evaluative peak despite the unlikelihood of the choices being beyond water and orange juice - especially since Alice Cooper was the biggest opposer to carbonated drinks - but Betty finds herself silently surprised at the full gallon of lemonade staring back at her. An obvious purchase by her father.
She grabs two glasses and pours the sweet beverage into each, not feeling even a slight bit of guilt for not checking with him first, as she usually did. He had struck more than a few nerves with her after raising his flag in her mother's court, so the least he deserved was half of his favorite replacement for beer gone.
The two chilly glasses are tucked into her elbows and the perspiration of each brings the start of her boiling to a simmer.
Her parents were working late at the Register, still none the wiser to her sister's new residence at Veronica's, and she's not going to waste this blessing of separation by obsessing over the frustration that's been building whenever she's with them. Maybe it's a little naïve to try, but for once she wants to put every stress to the side and enjoy one evening as a normal teenage girl with her...
Betty lays the towel over her hand and then Jughead's plate on top. There's also a quick shuffle to balance her own plate on the rim of a glass, leaving one between her elbow and chest. She raises a proud brow in humorous awe at the thought that she'd probably be an excellent waitress if the job ever called, although it falls short when adding in the walking part. Her pace slows with care so she can take her time to waddle up the stairs.
But there's still that first, and lingering thought that almost makes her mindlessly bound up the last three steps in glee if not for the sloshing of lemonade which pauses the action.
Even though she hasn't said it and he hasn't exactly said it, it is what they technically are and what she wants them to be so it's not entirely wrong if she were to consider it. Consider this...
An evening with her boyfriend.
Her smile spreads so wide that she tries to contain it by pulling her lower lip inside, but the thought of Jughead Jones patiently waiting with an arsenal of movies - that he insists every human being needs to watch - for her, his girlfriend, to come back up, it just makes her giddy.
A little too giddy considering the damp spot on her sleeve from an over-excited lemony splash as she rounds to her bedroom door - not that she minds. She'll just be sure to give Jughead the full one.
With a tilt from her hip she pushes the door open and automatically finds Jughead's name leaving her lips - reaching the destination with every dish attached has made her ready to surrender half the burden into his own hands - but the sound of the call dies rather quick.
Reheating their meals might have taken twenty minutes longer than she expected and the week might have been slowly but surely catching up to him, but the sight is still a surprise.
The pillows from their recent tossing fight are no longer scattered over the floor but now sit - a tad askew - by the headboard of her bed. From behind the pillow piled mattress a black cord pulls from the outlet she had plugged it into earlier across the short way until it rests on the limb denim covered knee which holds half the balance of her - opened and glowing - laptop.
Betty pushes the door closed with the back of her heel and quickly works to place each dish on the empty space of her dresser before approaching the full scene.
It's funny. Even if she knew the romance of it would be missed during slumber, she always liked the grand gesture of a man carrying their sleepy lover to a more comfortable bed. Polly and her would always swoon during any bridal style carry of a half budget movie as they considered it the perfect romcom material, and a few times, during late show binges with Archie, she would fantasize herself drifting to sleep on the couch only to be romantically whisked away in a certain someone's arms.
Betty never once thought she would ever be wishing to realize a role switch of that cheesy trope if it meant she could move Jughead to her more comfortable bed.
He hasn't moved from his cramped location in the cushioned window square but his position has changed. Probably from the fact that he's fallen asleep.
His hip is just crossing the cushioned edge as his left leg dangles to the floor and the right bends sharply against the glass. From the many years of cramming herself into the small space to read or catch some sunlight she knows the position will leave you with a definite crick in the neck.
A window sill, an air mattress, a closet, a drive-in's makeshift bed, even if he wouldn't want her to - she's noticed he doesn't like her to worry about him - she wants to wants to whisk him away from every possible discomfort he has like some unrealistic chick flick macho-man.
Yet with his breathing so slow and the usual tension of his jaw completely gone she can't find in herself to carry him out his new found comfort.
There's a small space taken by a pillow that sits beside his head, and she doesn't even think there's a second of hesitation to lay it on the floor and sits in its place.
Even with the thick layer of her leggings the few wisps of his hair tickle as they brush through to her skin. The feeling gives her a little more courage and she pushes back the last pillow against the window pane and gently cups the sides of beanie to bring his head into her lap.
The movement must have been more jarring than she thought as he gives a sigh and blinks awake.
"... 'fell asleep," he half mumbles in what sounds like a question and she places a hand on his chest before he attempts to move.
"It's fine Juggie," she promises and gently moves the curling lock of dark hair towards the grey knitted beanie brim. "It's been a long week… and I did invite you over so we could relax together."
"Really?" He raises a hand to brush his thumb along her chin until he reaches the end of her jaw. "Thought you brought me here to do your homework."
She raises her knee and let's herself fall into his caress to kiss a bright smile to his lips that he holds when she pulls back.
"The food's getting cold," she says but doesn't flicker her vision to the cooling steam of the plates.
"We can just heat it up again," he answers drowsily and she leans to give his stretching hand better access to the back of her neck. "And this time you'll have to let me help."
Later, once they've carried their own respective dishes downstairs and back, stolen food from each other's plates while regrettably watching his Silence of the Lambs, and drifted into the pillows of the bed barely watching the opening credits of her Sleepless in Seattle Betty finally notices the give in the drone of falling noise from outside. The pause in the rain gives an atmospheric pace for the way the clouds of sleep roll over his eyes with every heavy drop of his eyelashes, so when the warm circling press of fingers come to stop and rest on her shoulder as she tucks into his neck Betty knows this is something she never wants to miss.
Author's Note:
I am SO sorry if you've been waiting for my other multi chapter works because this one took control over my life. I went to sleep every night thinking about how it was sitting...watching me... waiting to be completed.
Hopefully this week of no sleep and many tears to finish the darn thing was worth it!
Also if you've never seen Sleepless in Seattle what the heck are you doing with your life, get ON that RIGHT NOW!
(During the writing process raptorlily and I both thought some of the scenes reminded us of a lovely Bughead fanart by Slashpalooza, so here's a shameless shout out to check them out!)