Welcome to my little Bughead College AU! Establishing canon for this tale: Betty and Veronica are besties dating back to high school. Veronica and Betty met Archie at college. Jughead is... you'll see.
For the purposes of this story, I'll be borrowing real songs as the songs of Sweetwater. All of Betty's penned songs are tunes by The Beaches, a wicked Canadian band that I highly recommend. Archie's songs vary in source and will be named.
Song Credits (In Order):
Back of my Heart - The Beaches
Boy Wonder - The Beaches
Disclaimer: Not my chess board - just shuffling the pieces for a few turns. Also, please note the rating is a hard T for this tale.
"Alright, let's try it again," Betty announced, shrugging on her guitar. "Ronnie, you're good with bass?"
Her best friend tossed her black hair over her shoulder and grinned. "I got you, B. Let's do it."
It was past eight, well into their scheduled band practice, but their co-lead singer and guitarist Archie Andrews had apparently decided to take his sweet time getting there. And while yeah, he'd been held up at football practice, Betty was still pissed off. She would have rather rescheduled entirely, particularly since their temporary drummer Valerie was already nudging them to find a full-time replacement.
Of course he'd blown them off on the night she'd finally brought a song of her own to the table. Asshole.
Valerie counted them in with her sticks and Betty's fingers flew on the opening riff, punchy and punk-infused. It was a straight-up rocker with an almost marching beat to the verses, boiling over in the chorus. It had less flourish than Archie's compositions, but Betty felt a feisty, playful vibe suited the tune.
Stepping to the mic, she began to sing. The lyrics had poured out of her last night, after her ex-boyfriend Reggie had called her up to tell her—once again—that she was wasting her time in a band. A creaking noise behind her announced the arrival of Archie (finally), and Betty found herself singing even louder:
"I can feel you tapping on the brick wall
I can hear you kick and yell
And tell me to come down
But I think I'm gonna stay here for a while
I know things are looking up
I don't know how long, I'll try my luck
I just know someday, I'm gonna get there
So don't hold me back, just hold me up
I can take a hit, I can take a punch—"
"What's this?" Archie's voice boomed.
The music stopped and Betty sighed, setting her guitar down. "Well Archie, if you'd bothered to be on time, you would know that this is the new song I've written. I'm calling it 'Back Of My Heart'. Now if you'll excuse us—"
"Hey, wait a minute," he interrupted, setting down his guitar. "Since when are you writing our songs?"
Betty's hands curled slowly into fists at her sides. "Um, since we agreed to share the songwriting when we formed Sweetwater?"
Archie shrugged his shoulders, ignoring Veronica's blatant gestures that suggested silence was his best option. "Yeah, but you've never written anything, so I thought we'd decided I would handle the songwriting."
"Not all of us have a full ride to college, Archie. Or four years of music classes paid for by mom and dad," Betty snapped. "I've been learning how to do it as we go, and I've finally pulled it together enough to share with the band."
"And it's a great song," Veronica interjected, earning a grateful smile from Betty. "It's sassy and full of 'fuck you' energy. It'll vibe nicely with our existing uptempo material."
The redhead sighed, tugging on his hair in frustration. "Alright, I guess I misunderstood. It's just that I brought a new song tonight, too. A duet. I think it'll go over great for the Open Mic next week. But hey, I'm late, so we can keep working on yours, Betty."
Betty wasn't an idiot. The text between his lines might as well have been in giant neon letters, burning out her eyes. And while this was a serious conversation they'd need to have, she was not in the mood for it tonight.
"No, we have thirty minutes left with Val. You can study the sheet music on mine. What have you got?"
Archie opened his guitar case, passing out his new song. "It's called 'Runaways'. It's got back and forths and harmonies, but your vocals are upfront, Betty."
Well, at least that was a refreshing change from the songs where her parts felt like token gestures. Tightening her ponytail, she studied the melody and nodded. This called for angry bass, something she was more than happy to provide tonight.
"Run us through it," she told him, screwing her practiced smile back into place.
By the time they'd parted ways for the night, Betty was desperate for a little escape.
Settling into a booth at her favourite diner, she ordered a coffee and a slice of apple pie, stabbing the latter angrily with her fork. Tired of obeying the myriad rules she'd embedded in her brain about propriety and manners, she intentionally left the edge crust behind. Her mother hated that, so much so that Betty had spent her entire life choking it down to please her.
No more.
That was what she'd decided thirteen months ago, after a car crash had nearly ended the life of her older sister, Polly. Standing over her sister's comatose form, listening to the beeps and drips keeping her alive, she'd been forced to confront her own mortality. The sisters had spent their lives under the carefully regimented rule of Alice Cooper, so controlled that the sisters each had a colour that dominated their respective closets. They'd both graduated as valedictorians. They'd both been cheerleaders. They'd both done everything their mother demanded—and then a drunk driver had shattered their lives, blowing a red light and plowing into the side of Polly's Hyundai Sonata ("It's a top safety pick, Polly!" Alice had reminded her, dismissing Polly's preference for a used Jetta).
Polly was lucky: after months of physiotherapy, she'd regained her ability to walk, albeit with a limp. She still tired from her post-concussion symptoms, but she was still alive. And as they spent hours together in the hospital, Polly had spoken of all the things she would do with her second chance. First on her list: the tattoo Alice had always forbidden. But Polly refused to break the rules alone…
"What's your secret passion?" Polly asked, shifting her broken leg beneath the blankets.
"I don't know."
"Don't lie to me, Betty. There's got to be something!" Polly insisted.
Betty shrugged, fidgeting with her empty soda can. "Well, maybe one thing…"
In grade six, Betty had spent her winter break at a Creative Arts Camp. It was a rare moment where her father had overruled her mother, and Betty had loved it. Painting, sculpting, dance… and music. Playing guitar had been a thrill, and she'd rushed home, pleading for an acoustic guitar for her birthday. Her mother had dismissed it as impractical, and not even Betty's four-day hunger strike had swayed her from her stance.
The day Polly got her tattoo, they'd dropped into a pawn shop and bought an acoustic guitar together. It was battered, a cheap brand, and hardly attractive. But it was hers, something she'd chosen for her own joy. And when she'd mastered enough basics to justify the splurge, she'd trekked out to a proper music store and bought a decent electric guitar and an amp.
Three weeks later, Archie had joked about forming a band over dinner and it had seemed fated. Her mother would hate the idea of Betty joining a band. She would hate the punk-infused clothing she'd bought for her stage persona. But those few hours each week in band practice were the only hours where she felt genuine. No expectations, no perfection. Just broken strings, laughter and song.
Flipping open her notebook, she began jotting down the lyrics she'd thought up as she rode the bus back to her block. Reggie's text messages were proving to be useful inspiration for her apparently bitchy muse.
What's the point of swimming in it if it's shallow?
What's the point of punching something if it's hollow?
"Writing the next great novel?"
Betty glanced up, finding a slight woman with bright pink hair standing over her, dressed in layered tank tops and a pink miniskirt. Her golden brown skin was dashed in glittering highlights, her eyeliner thick and her fishnets ripped. Betty liked it.
"Working on lyrics, actually."
Pink Hair smiled, leaning against the table. "Oh, you're in a band? That's awesome. You play around here?"
"Open mics, nothing major. We're still building up a set." Setting her pen down, she tilted her head askance. "I'm sorry, do I know you from somewhere?"
"People tell me that a lot. You want to know me?" Pink Hair slid into the booth across from her, extending her hand. "Toni Topaz."
Bewildered, Betty shook her hand. "Betty Cooper. And I meant, well, what brings you to my table?"
"Well, see the guy at the counter, horn-rimmed glasses, clearly does not have a damn clue about women?"
Betty sipped her coffee, casting her gaze at the counter. Said gentleman was currently flirting with the waitress, who was clearly unimpressed with whatever nonsense he was spewing.
"I see him. Bothering you?"
"Couldn't take piss off for an answer," Toni grumbled. "Anyway, I told him I had just spotted a fine looking woman over here and would he kindly excuse me or at least go fuck himself? And here I am."
Betty flushed, surprised by the compliment hidden within Toni's tale. "Well, clearly he knows you're lying. I'm pretty plain."
"Are you kidding me? Girl, your eyes are somewhere between emerald and sea green and scream anime babe. You already had me there, without the vintage Blondie tee. Embracing the sexist BS ironically, I assume, which is totally bad-ass."
Toni's hand slid across the table, reaching for hers. Oh. OH! Betty's anger, having dissipated, had revealed her common sense. And while her recent dating history had turned her off of the entirety of men, she sadly did not feel any naughty feelings for women.
A shame, since this happened at least once a month, lately.
"Toni, you're gorgeous and snarky, and were I into women even one percent—"
"Say no more, I got you." Toni leaned back, grinning. "But you'll cover for me if Douchebro McFail tries to talk to me again, won't you?"
"As far as he's concerned, we're a uHaul away from a lesbian relationship," Betty replied.
"Ha! I like you, Cooper. So what the hell is a woman like you doing in this place on a Friday night?"
Betty frowned, closing her notebook. "My bandmate is a thoughtless asshole who's unfortunately dating my bestie, so bitching about him to her is awkward. I dumped my boyfriend last week for calling my musical aspirations silly and complaining about how he was getting fewer handjobs because of it. Oh, and my super perfectionistic mother called me this morning to tell me I'm looking fat on social media."
"So you pretty much hate everyone?" Toni concluded.
"Including myself, for putting up with everyone's bullshit." Betty sighed, slamming her head onto the table. "I'm a fucking idiot."
Toni's hand squeezed her shoulder gently. "No, but you do sound like someone who's spent a lot of time trying to please others instead of making herself happy."
Huh. Betty sat up, mulling Toni's theory and finding plenty of evidence to support it. She'd backed down at band practice tonight to appease Veronica and please Archie. She'd promised her mother to get a gym membership and resume Pilates, even though she didn't have any time to spare these days. And Reggie… she'd only put up with him because Archie had set them up!
Hadn't she vowed to stop people pleasing and start respecting herself more? What the hell was she doing?
"You may be right," Betty conceded. "In fact, I know you are."
"In that case, I have the perfect prescription," Toni announced, eyes twinkling.
"I'm listening."
"To paraphrase an old TV show my grandfather watched constantly when I was little, sometimes you gotta go where nobody knows your name."
Which was how Betty Cooper, infamous goody-goody and Yes Girl, found herself standing outside of the local dive bar, The Whyte Wyrm.
They'd stopped at Betty's apartment first, where Toni had picked out a shimmering, silver tank top and a flared black skirt for her to wear. Her vivacious new friend had clucked her tongue sadly at Betty's more mom-friendly attire, poking it as if it were covered in dog dung.
"Is that a sweater set?"
"You see why I need a little rebellion in my life?" Betty groaned.
"This isn't just a friendly invite anymore. It's an intervention." Pawing through her oversized purse, she'd retrieved a black velvet choker with a tiny star pendant. "Wear this. Consider it a gift."
"Toni, no. I'll give it back."
"I have five like this, it's fine. Now, the messy ponytail is hot as hell, but you need to amp up those sexy doe eyes. Sit down and let me work my magic."
An hour later, they'd arrived at the bar, dressed to rebel. Betty's eyes were lined in black and dusted in a smokey eyeshadow with a hint of green in her crease. Her lips were glossy and pink, her seldom-worn Doc Marten boots were strapped on, and she felt sexy as hell.
"This place looks sketch, Toni."
Toni laughed as she fixed her coffee-coloured lipstick with an assist from a hubcap. "It's totally sketch, but the music is awesome on Fridays. My friend Fangs spins. Plus shots are only three bucks."
Betty drew a deep breath as old insecurities flooded her. In the back of her mind, she could hear her mother lecturing her on first impressions and how important a good reputation would be for her entire life. Sensing her anxiety, Toni grabbed her shoulders, shaking her gently.
"Betty, you've spent your entire life listening to everyone else. Everyone else isn't here. You and me, we're going to go inside, have a few drinks, dance our asses off and sleep until two tomorrow."
"You're right. I deserve some fun!"
"Hell yes!"
"I deserve to go in there, do shots and dance until my feet fall off!" Adjusting her skirt, Betty grinned. "Let's do this!"
Toni looped her arm through Betty's and led her to the door. The bouncer greeted her friend by name, stepping aside without so much as thinking of carding them. Betty shrugged off her surprise quickly as she took in the ambience of the Wyrm, or lack thereof. The interior was primarily wood and leather seating, although she did love the multi-coloured lights strung along the exposed beams of the ceiling. On the far side of the bar lay a modest dance floor and a tiny stage, scarcely big enough for Sweetwater's five-piece. Toni raised a hand in greeting to her friend Fangs, who was fidgeting with his gear.
The Clash was on ("Should I Stay or Should I Go") and Betty beamed. Toni was right: this place was perfect.
"What's your poison?"
Betty glanced at the rail, spying a wide array of whiskey, vodka, rum and the dreaded tequila. "Anything but beer. It's carbonated piss."
"Ha! Well then, I got you. Hey, Tall Boy! Four shots of Patron," Toni called out, slapping down a twenty.
The hulking bartender—easily six five, in Betty's eyes—was speedy, sliding the shots across the bar while topping up a glass of whatever pale ale was on tap. They clinked glasses, downing their first shots quickly.
"I've got the next round," Betty insisted.
"Of course! Bottoms up, babe."
Two shots down, and Betty was already at ease. Perhaps it was the way nearly every passerby greeted Toni with a warm smile or a pat on the shoulder, a sign of a respected regular. Or maybe it was the relief that came from escaping prying eyes. Tightening her boots to keep her phone case secure within, she shrieked as the song changed.
"Ahh! That's my jam. Let's dance!"
"Bad Reputation" was a classic song, but for Betty, it was a triumphant middle finger to her past. She and Toni worked their way to the stage, swaying and jumping to the beat. The floor was half-full, but they were like-minded patrons eager to let loose. Betty sang along quietly, whipping her ponytail wildly from side to side.
Time began to fly: Fangs blew through a set of punk goodies, from The Runaways to The Distillers and right around to Green Day's "She's a Rebel". Toni laughed as it began to play, flipping off Fangs in dramatic fashion.
"He's been calling me Whatshername for years, that asshole," she explained, smirking. "Can't get away from that album when he's spinning. Hey, you thirsty? I'm gonna grab a drink."
"Parched! But it's my turn to pay," Betty insisted, tugging a twenty from her boot.
Toni accepted the bill, shaking her head. "Be a rebel, girlfriend. This ain't kindergarten. BUT… I will happily spend your cash on margaritas."
Betty remained on the dancefloor, beaming as Fangs switched things up for a brooding electronic vibe. "Magnets" was one of her favourite songs to dance to and she closed her eyes, rolling her hips with the sensual melody.
"Pretty girls don't know the things that I know," she sang along, stretching her arms overhead as she swayed and gyrated.
Across the room, unbeknownst to the spirited blonde, icy blue eyes were transfixed by her movement…
A tease, I know, but we're just getting started. Our POV will primarily be Betty's, but a certain dark-haired man will take the wheel for a few chapters.
Please review, fave, do your thing. This one won't be as long as Gaslight, but I promise Bughead satisfaction.