Chapter 2:
of all the apartments, in all the towns in the world…
Well, today is your guys' lucky day. It was slow at work and you guys were so damn cute with your reviews/kudos/etc. that I had to post chapter two like, immediately. I was going to post yesterday but my grandpa passed away.
But see what happens when you motivate a writer? We deliver. Gotta keep up the momentum for you fine ass folks. Already working on Chapter 3. I needed this little hiatus from Splintering, for sure.
The sound of Jughead's keys clanging loudly against the entryway table makes her jump like a frightened cat. He can see that she's braced and ready to explain herself, but she appears to be rendered speechless when she recognizes. They just stand there and awkwardly stare at one another, trying to figure out just what exactly is happening, here.
"Um… hey there, Goldilocks," he manages to string together. He is just as amused as he is bewildered - Is he imaging this? Is he dreaming? More importantly… how did she even get in here?
His hands search for the pockets of his pants as he rocks back and forth on his heels, " "Wanna tell me what exactly you're doing here?" He sounds menacing, but it's all a show and he can't seem to wipe the smile off his face. This is just too surreal.
"You…?" she breathes, "wh-what are you doing here?"
Jughead silences momentarily, and then sputters out a sort of baffled chuckle. Is this a joke? Is she messing with him? And if so… why doesn't he get it?
He can feel his forehead crease, he shakes his head, "I'm pretty sure I asked you that first." He strides in further, stripping his wet jacket off and tossing it on the back of the couch. "And I'm pretty sure you're in my apartment-"
There are those wide, green eyes again, staring back at him in awe. They're crazy green right now, like kaleidoscope eyes. Betty in the Sky with Diamonds. So interesting that only a few hours ago he'd grappled with the fact that he may not see her again until after the break and yet once again: here. she. is.
"Your apartment?" she parrots right back at him.
Well… hell. Now she's got him doubting his own sanity, so he glances around:
Exposed wooden beams…? Check.
Dark, broody color scheme…? You betcha.
Impeccable taste…? Yup, this is still his place.
He narrows his eyes at her, "Um, last I checked... yeah."
"But…" Oh. She suddenly whitens, her mouth falling open, "Oh, God. Wait…"
And then it clicks - for both of them. (Although, he's fairly certain she got there a full half-second before he did.)
Jughead points at her, "…you're here to see-"
"Archie," they finish in unison. Another uncomfortable silence falls upon them and Jughead wards off the slight bout of nausea this is bringing up in him.
Archie? A perfect specimen like Betty "Flower Girl" Cooper - Jughead's mysterious dream girl - is all wrapped up in the likes of Archie Andrews?
She folds her lips, nodding in what appears to be defeat. She smacks her lips, "So then… You and Archie live together." This isn't a question she's asking now; she's merely stating a fact, connecting the dots. And he hopes she feels as disappointed by this realization as he does.
"Well… just barely," Jughead says. He gestures towards the half-unpacked boxes sitting near the hallway and her eyes follow. They're haphazardly stacked on each other, Archie's handwriting scrawling 'Archie's junk' across the side. "My roommate Josh just moved to Spain to study abroad and Big Red could pay the deposit in full, so…"
"Right…" she whispers. Her gaze falls to the dark, hardwood floor and damnit, de wishes he'd swept today…It's not like he was expecting company.
"Small world, huh?" is all he can think to say, and then he clenches his jaw shut and wants to kick himself for not being able to come up with anything better than some dumb, overused cliché.
"Weird world," she mutters back. That's more like it.
"Well… Sorry to inform you, but he's not here," Jughead shrugs.
"So I gathered," she snaps at him, followed up immediately with a, "sorry." There are those damn manners, again. She apologizes too much, too often.
"Well, this explains… so much."
"Does it?" she chirps back. She's flushed again, writhing uncomfortably on her own feet. She's panicking because not only was Jughead the last person she was expecting to see, but she just got caught in an incredibly awkward situation. "Because I'm still confused."
"Well, then. That makes two of us."
He doesn't want to, but he somehow feels ever-so-slightly defensive – she came here looking for Archie, but had to settle for the charming, handsome, intelligent bartender instead. And why does she seem so disappointed by that? He finds himself wondering if she was really going to break it off with Archie had she found him here tonight, or if she would simply melt into him the moment he showed her the tiniest bit of lukewarm interest. Jughead barely lifts the hat off of his head, runs his fingers through his inky, damp hair, and then promptly puts the hat back on.
He sighs in the silence, but it turns to a kind of growl. This is not the kind of situation he wants to be in without a drink. So he crosses the room and heads into the open kitchen before flicking on the lights. She just watches him from her planted spot in the living room, her arms crossed over her chest, apprehensively - he finds it humorous that she seems to intend on sticking around.
He opens the cabinet to his (usually) stocked bar, only to see Archie has pretty much cleaned them out. There's a half-full (or, half-empty, if you fancy yourself a pessimist) bottle of vodka, some mixers. Gin.
When he glances back at her, she's looking down at her fidgeting, nervous hands, "So…" she says.
"So," he replies.
"Where… where is Archie… anyway?" Her attempt to ask this question so casually given the fact that she basically broke into their apartment is laughable at this point. And… ugh. Adorable. Betty's words are thick and dripping with disdain – not in Archie, but in herself. She hates that she's even asking the question. She is still lovesick and she doesn't want to be.
"He left this morning for Tahoe with some friends. And took all the good booze with him, the prick," he tells her far too directly to protect her feelings. Then again, after his rant at the bar earlier, she can probably tell he isn't really the type to tiptoe around the truth. And he isn't going to be starting now. Everything he said then remains true, even if the 'not-quite-my-boyfriend' she's been mooning over turned out to be his new roommate.
"Oh," she utters, simply. It bends, it cracks. He hopes she isn't about to cry. He wants to tell her that Archie's not worth the tears - especially after bailing on plans with her only to go across the country with his binge-drinking, frat-boy buddies.
But she's smart. And strong. And something inside of him thinks she already knows that.
"Drink?" he offers, yanking the vodka from the cupboard. The clear liquid swirls around in the bottle like a tornado.
She goes to answer, and it seems like she might be teetering on a yes, but just like that, her face changes and she tells him quickly, "I-I should go-":
"No!" he blurts - far too eagerly. He reminds himself to chill, pull back. And, most importantly: Don't be such a freaking weirdo.
"Really, I think I've embarrassed myself enough tonight-" she insists, snatching up her purse from nearby. While she looks like she may have freshened up before he got there – her cheeks are now devoid of running mascara - he can still see through her damp shirt. Not that he's complaining.
"Oh, don't," His voice squeaks like a 13-year-old going through puberty. He recovers quickly, he clears his throat. "You don't have to be embarrassed around me. I mean, who am I? No one, remember? Specific Hat Man." He watches her face slowly soften and the slightest hint of a smile comes back. Her nerves seem to dissolve and she lets herself faintly chuckle behind her hand.
"It is a very specific hat," she repeats from earlier. She seems to be feeling better already. They've both almost forgotten the terribly strange situation they are in.
"See? We have inside jokes, already," he muses. She smiles even bigger now and she's not trying to hide it anymore and it's bright and beaming and it makes him reciprocate involuntarily, "Just like old friends."
"You're not…" she begins, but her words trail off. Her stare veers off, too. She's having a hard time looking at him and he can't seem to decipher if it's because she's still totally mortified (probably) or if it's because maybe she's digging his awkward charm (probably not). Either way, he can't resist at least trying to keep her around as long as possible.
He leans back against the kitchen counter, "I'm not what?" he presses.
She sighs and groans embarrassedly, "You're not mad, you know? About me… kinda, sorta…" Why can't she just spit it out? "-letting myself in?"
"Oh!" he exclaims, "You mean the breaking and entering?" He waves her off and spins the cap off the top of the vodka bottle. "Nah. We can keep the authorities out of this, I think." She loosely pulls her still-wet hair up into a sloppy ponytail and bravely steps into the kitchen with him. Betty leans her whole body against the counter, coolly.
"You told me to cut it off with him…" she mumbles through another sheepish grin. She's blaming him for her entirely inappropriate decision of breaking into some guy's apartment because he stood her up. (Should he be worried about her or himself at this point?)
"I mean, I think a simple 'fuck you' text would have sufficed."
She mocks his smile back at him, fake laughing at his very logical response.
He lowers his head and his voice as he tells her, "But… I'm glad you did. Makes me feel like a modern-day Humphrey Bogart. Of all the apartments in all the towns in all the world… she breaks into mine."
She narrows her eyes, a wry smile on her lips, "riiiight."
She thinks he is being sarcastic when he wants to tell her he's being sincere. But, he doesn't – now isn't that just a tragedy?
"But tell me," his tone is lighter now, "how did you get in, anyway? Shimmy up the drainpipe? Knock in a window?"
She sneakily holds up silvery a key, "it was under the mat…"
"Wow," Jughead raises his eyebrows and nods approvingly. He glances at her over his shoulder as he opens the freezer to fetch the ice, "soooo resourceful. Like a little Nancy Drew."
Betty brightens instantly. She joyously clasps her hands together over her chest, her eyes glistening with nostalgia, "I used to have all of her books." Nerd. She wiggles her head in a grand, proud way, adding, "And her detective kit." Betty says this as though it should impress him – for some odd reason, it does. Is she trying to impress him?
"Well, I know who to call if I have a murder mystery to solve."
"Mmm-hmm…" she hums. "I'm your girl." Why she chose those words, he'll never know. He wishes suddenly they were back at his bar, a safe two feet of wooden countertop separating the two of them.
Without any warning, Betty reaches past him and leans her body into his, barely grazing him, to fetch the vodka bottle out of his hand. He hadn't been expecting it so his body stiffens, his breath is stolen from him.
Her eyes never leave his as she tips the bottle back and takes a big swig. It would have been a perfectly erotic moment… if she didn't immediately fall into a coughing, spitting fit and nearly drop the bottle altogether. Jughead just laughs, taking the bottle from her hand before she can do any more damage to herself - or anyone else, for that matter. She pounds her chest a few times and it makes a hollow sound.
"Went down the wrong tube," she wheezes.
"Easy there, turbo," he shakes the bottle at her, the vodka sloshing around inside, "Instead of killing yourself, how about you let me make you a real drink-"
"Wait!" she practically yells, snatching the bottle back once more and holding it closely, as though she's cradling a newborn. "I'll make them."
"That's okay-"
"No, really," she demands, walking to the cupboard to grab two glasses. She instinctively knows where he keeps the tumblers – it's a sign we're soulmates, he thinks. "You just worked all day making drinks."
"Well," he tries to correct. Really it was only six hours. Before that he mostly just played PS4 and napped.
"You take a break. I'll serve you." He raises his eyebrows again at the suggestive comment – she's already turned, her back to him, as she drops the ice in the glasses and pretends to be a bartender in his very own kitchen. This was the certainly last thing he was expecting tonight.
He can only shake his head once more, "Well… aren't you so-"
"Ha! Annoying?" she snorts back at him over her shoulder, then blushes. She needs to love herself a little more.
"I was gonna say nice - but, uh - now that you mention it…"
"Shut uhhhhpp…" she mews. It's deep and gravelly and it comes from the back of her throat… and he hates that it makes him wonder what her moans would sound like. His biggest goal in life at this moment is to make sure he never hears it through the paper-thin wall that separates his and Archie's bedrooms.
He's gotta stop thinking this kind of shit.
"Well I take that back then. You're not really nice at all, are you?"
She turns to him, two finished drinks in her hands. She offers one to him and keeps the other for herself. It's foggy and a strange, purplish color. He has no idea what she's mixed in it.
"Fancy," he comments.
"Before you get too impressed, it's literally just a mixture of everything you have," she forewarns him, then raises her glass to clink it against his, and they finally get that cheers she'd proposed earlier, back at the bar.
"Why, Betty Cooper, are you trying to get me drunk?" Jughead asks her in mock offense. She just smiles coyly and shrugs and he feels like the rug is yanked out from under him – like the way your stomach drops on a rollercoaster. Exhilarating. She's quite an unusual creature and he might have thought he had her pegged at the bar, but he would gladly spend the rest of his life unraveling and relishing in her mystery.
They drink it down quickly. He doesn't retch, but he wants to. It's strong and awful and knowing what a lightweight she is, he knows it's going to do her in. She strolls into his living room and plops down on his deep blue couch, sinking into the cushions.
"Why am I such a moron?" she groans, closing her eyes and her hand falling over her eyes. She's back to self-loathing again. Her head falls back into the cushion behind her and he can't help but trace the curve of her jaw with his eyes. He sits in the chair across from her, his feet up on the coffee table.
"Morons aren't generally aware that they are morons," he tells her, some kind of silver-lining. "Therefore, you're not a moron."
Archie's a moron.
She takes another gulp of her cloudy, colorful drink and winces – although, he knows she'll never admit how awful it really is. Her arms fall limply to her sides, "you know, I only met Archie two weeks ago-"
"And you already thought he was your boyfriend?!" Jughead laughs, but sobers when he sees she's not laughing right along with him.
"I don't know I just… I thought he was… sweet."
"He's… something," Jughead allows. Betty frowns, sinking even further into the couch and putting her feet up on the coffee table, once again her body language mimicking his.
"You don't seem to like him very much. Why would you even have him move in here if you feel that way?"
Jughead didn't mean to sound so bitter, it's just… he knows guys like Archie. In the couple weeks he'd lived there, he's already had a line of girls rotating in and out like a revolving door. He wasn't a bad guy, just not cut from the same cloth.
"I know his type," Jughead answers shortly. She cocks one perfectly groomed eyebrow.
"Oh, like you knew mine?"
"Precisely."
"You weren't right about everything, you know," she grumbles, another gulp of her concoction. She doesn't seem to mind the burn anymore, which means she's beginning to feel it. Jughead rises, bending down to tap her boot that is still resting on the coffee table.
"Okay. Prove it," he challenges.
"And how am I supposed to do that?"
Jughead's posture straightens and he looms over her, crossing his arms over his chest, "show me your socks. If I was wrong, I'll apologize and eat my words." She bites the plush, soft area of her bottom lip.
"And if you're right?" she wonders.
He shrugs loosely, "then I get bragging rights. And I'll never let you live it down. And…" he rushes over to the entertainment center and fetches a DVD from his collection, "you have to stay and watch Casablanca in its entirety."
She squints at him, her head tilting, "This isn't a very high-stakes bet-"
"You're stalling."
"Fine!" she nearly shouts, but her tone isn't sharp – it's playful and giddy and giggly. She reaches down and yanks off her left boot. Her sock is light pink.
"Okay, now the other," he instructs her. She leers back up at him, trying with all her might to contain the urging of a smile from spreading across her lips. She's so obedient.
She slips her other boot off with ease, and he's not at all surprised that he was right; and to make the victory even sweeter, it's a colorful, floral pattern.
"You win," she sighs in defeat sinking back into the couch and nursing her cocktail. "Start the movie."
He just smirks down at her.
She doesn't even realize that they've both won.
To be continued...