Flower Girl:

A Bughead Fanfiction

Synopsis: When most of the University students head home for Spring break weekend, Jughead is tending bar. That's when Betty Cooper walks in, soaking wet and seeking advice.

Genre: Humor/Fluff

Timeline: College A/U

Pairing: [Betty/Jughead]

Rating: T-M

A/N: Splintering is so angsty. I needed some fluff to cleanse the pallet.

Chapter 1:

She always drew flowers in the corner of her notebook pages when she got bored during lectures.

Sometimes daisies. Sometimes roses. They had long, winding stems adorned with leaves.

When she was in a good mood, the flowers were blooming. When she seemed sad, she often drew them wilting - She had been drawing a lot of wilting flowers, lately.

But that's how Jughead always identified her: The Flower Girl. At least, that's how he'd identified her since the beginning of winter term when he saw her for the first time in their two-part literature course. He noticed her right away; it was hard not to.

She was beautiful. From her papers and her contribution in class, she was intelligent.

And the first day he saw her, she was late.

"Sorry, so sorry," she murmured, finding the closest seat and slinking in. Her cheeks were flushed, her breaths were heavy. She'd probably ran there.

Being a TA, he would often collect the papers from the other students when an assignment was due. Without fail, whenever he found the paper with the flowers drawn in the margins, it was always her name scrawled so elegantly across the top: Betty Cooper.

Tonight is different, though.

When she comes into the bar, she is soaking wet - as though she just took a fully-clothed dip in the campus fountain outside. The gauze-like, pale pink material of her blouse clings to her body, leaving very little to the imagination. He can see her lacy, white bra as though the shirt were sheer - she may as well have forgone it altogether.

But he is polite. He doesn't stare.

Even as the rain drips from her golden hair and she huffs out a lonely sigh, climbing up on the barstool right across from him. It's late on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday night. Spring break has just started, sending all the students spiraling in different directions, home for the weeklong furlough. Aside from a few regulars, the bar is dead.

And she is the very last person he imagines walking in tonight.

"What can I get you?" he asks the beauty, barely looking up at her. He tries to treat her like every other customer who walks into the bar, and not like the girl he'd watched in class, studied. He'd sat behind her once or twice, noticing the small cluster of freckles on the back of her neck. He wants to trace them like a dot-to-dot, discover her hidden artistry.

When she looks up at him, he sees that her mascara has run. He is unsure if it is from tears or rain.

"Vodka soda," she says, propping her chin up with her hand. "Double. Please."

The 'please' is an afterthought, like a girl who has been groomed to be polite her whole life, but hasn't been home in so long that she's forgotten her manners. She probably even heard her mother's voice echoing in her back of her head, scolding her: "now, what do we say, Elizabeth?"

Please.

Jughead whistles, shaking his head. "You look like you've had a rough day…" he says. He pulls out a shotglass and begins to pour.

"How could you tell?" she asks him, a mischievous smile on her pink lips; the kind that reaches her eyes and makes them sparkle.

"Just a hunch." He smoothly slides her glass over to her across the glossy, wooden counter.

"Oh, wait. Could I get some lime too, please?" she asks, scrunching her nose, "if it's not too much trouble-"

Jughead snickers and grabs a lime wedge from the metal bowl nearby. He squeezes it into her drink, and then plops it in.

"Boy, you sure are high maintenance…" he teases, shaking his head in mock disapproval. She bites her tongue and smiles. She takes the thin black straw between her lips and breathes in a long drink. She winces as it goes down, and then she coughs, delicately.

"This is strong."

"Oh, I know," Jughead says, pausing only a moment before refilling the beer mug of the old, drunk man at the other end of the bar. "You seemed like you could use it."

"What are you, a mind reader?" she quips, flatly. He chuckles again to himself, but doesn't answer her purely rhetorical question.

"What brings you in here tonight, anyway?" She tilts her head slightly, her ear out to hear what he's asking her. He watches the question process on her face, watches her begin to formulate an answer. She's fascinating, already.

"I was supposed to meet someone-"

This is his chance to come to the rescue, (and so soon, too).

"Okay, what's he look like? I'll keep an eye out-"

"-three hours ago," she finishes.

"Oh."

Her forlorn and forgotten smile tells him what he's already gathered: she's been stood up.

"Yeah…" She tucks some of that aryan, blonde hair behind her ear, sheepishly. Embarrassedly. She shouldn't be embarrassed, he thinks. It's the moron who stood her up that should be embarrassed.

Of course, he doesn't say this aloud.

She goes on, "We were supposed to meet at the campus coffee shop but he never showed. So, I began my walk of shame home, but it started pouring. So I ducked in here, and here I am."

And here she is.

She tips the drink back, gulping it down. When she sets the glass back down, he watches her visibly shudder; probably from being cold and wet... and the rush of alcohol that is now sinking into her bloodstream.

"Well then… this one's on the house," he offers, refilling her glass, twist of lime. She lazily leans her cheek deeper into her palm, snorting.

"I don't need your pity, kind sir," she assures him haughtily. Her words are already slurring. She's a lightweight. She takes the glass in her hand, swirling the contents, "but I shall take it, anyway." She holds the glass up to cheers with him, even though he clearly doesn't have a glass to reciprocate.

He doesn't want to creep her out, staring at her so much, so Jughead goes back to wiping down the bar. That's when he catches her staring at him, instead. Her eyes are narrowed, her head tilted to the side- she's trying to place him. He looks around uncomfortably, "what?"

"I know you," she says after a moment. A very slow, deliberate smile cracks across her face.

"Hmm. I doubt that."

She sits up straighter in her seat, "Yeah, I do! You're the TA in Professor Kelley's lit class."

Jughead leans in toward her, his arms on the bar now, "And how do you know it's me? How do you know I don't have a twin?"

She laughs, too loudly. Her head falls back, "no. I know it's you-"

"Maybe I have a clone, an evil clone-" he continues to razz her.

She points a finger at him and tells him through her laughter, "I know it's you because of that hat. It's a very specific hat. You wear it every day."

He nods once, humbled.

"You got me. Specific hat man."

"Hello, Hat Man. I'm Betty." He says her name right along with her, at least in his mind he does. She extends her hand out to shake his. "Betty Cooper."

He takes her hand, giving it a quick shake, "Jughead." He lets go as though she were electric.

"Pshhh! No it's not!" she laughs, her body now falling forward. He just stares back at her - it isn't the first time someone's that kind of a reaction to his unique name. Her smile fades quickly, her cheeks turning a very vibrant shade of pink. "Oh, God. I-I'm sorry."

He just chuckles lightly, drying the glasses in front of him with a rag.

"So. That guy who stood you up. Who is he?"

"He's…. My boyfriend?" she replies, her face all scrunched up. He smiles now, bigger than before. This must be what's causing her and her flowers to look so sad, lately. He wishes he could tell her that, but that would be an insane thing to do.

"Was… that a question?"

She sighs, her shoulders slumping. "I don't know what we are, honestly. We've kissed a few times…"

Jughead sighs too, swinging the rag over his shoulder and leaning down again. She also leans in, and in the very small, intimate space between them, he asks her, "want some advice?" Her plump, pouted lips slightly part and she nods slowly with wide, wondering eyes. They are green. He hadn't been sure before, but my God, they are green.

"Okay…" She's hesitant. She can tell it's not going to be what she wants to hear. But she's willing, so that's a good sign.

"You say you don't know what you guys are… but, I mean... he stood you up. And rule of thumb is that generally if you don't even know where you stand with a guy? Well… he's not your boyfriend."

Her lips purse together and she swallows, "I mean… not yet-"

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, here. But you have to prepare for the possibility of not ever."

She folds her arms over her chest and sulks - that perfect, bottom lip of hers just barely sticks out. He is right: she doesn't want to hear it.

"You don't know that," she near-whispers. He smirks, standing more upright.

"Oh, sure I do," he tells her, having a cavalier hand in her direction. He leans down again, this time so close to her face he could kiss her if he wants to. And he wants to. But he won't. She mimics him. She leans in. He's taken enough psychology to know she at the very least trusts him. "But I have some good news for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It means that you're free to move on and find someone who actually wants to be your boyfriend." He can hear her suck in a soft breath, her eyes searching his. "And besides… you seem like the kind of girl who has lots of guys banging down your door for a date," he shrugs. Her brows crease, she looks ever-so-slightly offended.

"Not necessarily..." she tells him, taking another sip of her cocktail. She purses her lips again, this time to subdue the tartness of the drink. "And who are you, anyway?"

"No one," is his very simple, very direct response. He huffs out a quick laugh. "Really. No one."

No one to the likes of flower girls like Betty Cooper.

"You don't know him."

"You're right." He takes in a quick breath, leaning against the back of the bar. He watches as a few new customers come in, laughing and loud and just in time to ruin the tension they've steadily been building. But she isn't ready to let it go.

"And you don't know me," she says, her eyes darkening and her demeanor changing. She is embarrassed again, he can tell. She slinks into herself, her whole posture contracting. What she means to say is that she doesn't know herself. And she is terrified he might be onto something, here.

"Sure I do," he tells her, far too cocky for his own good. Jughead had never been a confident person, per se. He's not quite sure where this is coming from. Perhaps his uncanny ability to call people out when necessary. And in this case, it seems necessary.

"Then tell me, oh wise one. Who am I?" she challenges. She now sounds flirty in nature, but he's dead serious. Catching her gaze, he leans in one last time:

"You're the kind of girl who goes by Betty because you think it sounds timeless and uncommon and Elizabeth was too formal and Lizzy made you feel like a little girl. You loved your daddy more than your mom because he always made you feel special - at least, more special than she does. But I'd bet you still have this nagging, unrelenting need to please her. Am I warm?"

She looks puzzled at first, absently uttering out a "...maybe."

"I thought so."

She snaps out of it, waving him off now, "Lucky guess. I'm sure that analysis could work for a lot of different girls-"

"You believed in fairytales a little too long and think most cheesy love songs hold a lot more poignancy than they deserve. You played with Barbies for a little longer than you care to admit, and if I were to look in your boots, I'd see that you're not wearing matching socks."

That one seems to freak her out a bit. Her eyes round with guilt before she casts her gaze downwards, toward her boots, "wait… How did you-"

But he's not done yet. He's just getting to the most important part.

"I'd guess this boy who stood you up isn't the first one you've let walk all over you or let you down, and you ask yourself why you allow it every single time. But you continue to fall for it again and again and again and-

"Alright," she snaps, raking her fingers through her wet hair. She forces a smile, once again trying to remain polite, always remembering those dang manners that have been drilled into her from infancy. She probably grew up believing it was impolite to cry or show any emotion other than happiness.

"Hey, you asked," he tells her, his hands up in a ceasefire.

"I know…" she spits out, heaving another heavy sigh. She picks at the napkin in front of her, mindlessly ripping at the corners. "I just didn't expect you to be so… forthcoming. How did you know all that, by the way?" Jughead wants to tell her it's a gift, that he can read people because he's always stood in the background. Watching. Observing. Noting.

"But more than all that, you're a girl who doesn't see her own worth, and wastes her own time wondering if some loser - who doesn't deserve it - may or may not be her boyfriend."

She is lost in the moment, and if he's honest with himself, he is too. He can see the people who came in a moment ago getting impatient, but he doesn't care. They can wait.

She shakes off her daze, groaning at herself, "ugh, you're right."

"I usually am."

"What should I do?" she asks him, and he is almost caught off guard. He didn't realize there was a step two to his advice. So he tells her the most logical thing he can think of:

"Don't let him have that power anymore. Cut it off. Make the choice for him. He can't treat you that way, Betty. He's not your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," she repeats, and he is almost certain it is going to become her new mantra. At least, he hopes so. She sounds more confident the second time she says it, "he's not my boyfriend."

"There you go." He finally walks over to the waiting customers, who ask for a beer and a glass of Merlot, respectively.

"I'm gonna tell him that!" She pulls out her cellphone, squinting to see the screen. She fumbles around on it for a moment, he can't tell how tipsy she is but she seems alright.

"Good for you."

She stands, grabbing her purse, "I'm gonna go tell him. In person. He can't treat me like that-" He's wondering if this newfound confidence in her is real or liquid courage.

"Do you need me to call you a cab?"

"No, the rain seems to have stopped. I'll walk."

He hands the couple their drinks and wonders if he'll see her again outside of class. He never even got to ask her why she didn't go home for spring break. He wants to ask for her number, he wants to ask her if he can see her again. But no… somehow, after all of that, he can't seem to find the nerve.

"Good luck," he tells her, instead.

"Thank you, Hat Man."

"Jughead. But close," he smirks.

"Jughead," she smiles back at him. "Got it."

And just how she had walked in, she walks right back out.

"Can I get a refill over here?" the drunk man calls out, bringing Jughead back to reality.

"Alright, Marv. I'm coming. Relax with yourself."

He spends the rest of the night regretting that he didn't ask for her number, or even just any way to reach her. He figures that if he is meant to see her again this spring break, fate will find a way to throw them in each other's path, once more.

So, imagine Jughead's complete and utter surprise when he unlocks the door to his apartment that night to find her sitting inside. Maybe fate works a lot faster than he expected.

To be continued...