To her relief, Veronica didn't press for details or try to pry any reasons from Betty on the subject of why she wasn't acting like her normal self, of what was wrong.
Betty was no stranger to thoughts zooming around her head, to bad moods lasting days, to obsessing over things to the point of insanity. The constant clammy sweat on the back of her neck was from the heat, not the dark place she seemed to be slipping into.
Even though she was fully aware of the slipping, it didn't make clawing her way back any easier. When she was young, she hadn't had a clue what the feelings meant, hadn't had a clue about how to halt them in their tracks, how to reverse and pull a metaphorically tight, three-point turn and get the hell out of -
Betty felt like she hadn't smiled in days, weeks. Months even.
Logically, that wasn't true, because she had been absurdly happy on Trivia Night barely a week before and so…
This was ridiculous.
She was a grown woman. She knew this was unhealthy behaviour.
No, looking for stuff she knew she didn't want to see was the unhealthy part.
If anything, she knew that at least for a short time, she had to let herself feel. Even if, like now, it was a bad feel. But the problem currently was that she was allowing it to drag on.
She'd ignored calls from her mother.
She'd ignored texts from Juggie.
She couldn't seem to face either of them right now.
Her mother, because she would say exactly the thing Betty didn't think she could bare to hear.
And Jug, because… He was Jug, and she didn't want to burden him with this. He'd done his part; he'd warned her on multiple occasions to let that stuff go, to ignore it, to pretend it didn't even exist. Social media blinders were what she needed.
Except it wasn't just about the stuff online. It was suddenly about everything. Her move to the city, her mother, her father, Jughead,school, her job.
Unfortunately, she couldn't get out of working. Her shifts during the week dragged by. Betty was making it to work barely on time, leaving as soon as she was able, and in the meantime, putting the barest amount of effort into looking like she was okay.
Today, though -
Today was her last shift for a few days off and she spent the entire eight hours in a battle with herself to keep from tearing up. An entire eight hours of trying not to think about any of the one-line comments, of the hurtful words, of the detrimental thoughts that had been populating her consciousness for too long.
Her body was tired; she never realized how tiring anxiety was until she was in the thick of it, and her inner turmoil was literally sapping everything she had. She had to carefully ration her limited supply of patience and relative good will towards the public, to stretch it out over the nine hours she would be away from her bed.
It was slow, and it was treacherous, and it felt like glass shards in her stomach. It felt like a lead weight on her sternum, unyielding, crushing.
She hadn't eaten in…
But Veronica had forced her to drink some juice earlier, the fancy kind that was a saturated, opaque green. It had tasted like green, too, but V had assured her that it would help, to have something, anything.
In retrospect, it probably did help her.
She arrived home after trudging back to the apartment. In the elevator, her face stared back at her, unseeing and pallid. She closed the front door behind herself and started dropping things where they fell from her grasp; backpack, shoes, socks, a trail of discarded effects.
"Betty, how was - oh!"
She lifted her eyes to Veronica's, swallowing thickly, willing herself to see instead of just -
"I need to -"
Betty pulled her shirt over her head and dropped it, still walking in the direction of the bathroom.
"I need to be clean, I need to…"
She didn't know what she needed really but -
"Okay," Veronica nodded, letting her pass. Betty could hear V's steps padding behind her. "Can I - can I help? I don't know how to help, please tell me."
Betty remained silent, shuffling into the large bathroom.
"Can you even tell me how? That seems like it might be…"
She shook her head, getting mad at herself for causing the shorter brunette problems. For distracting her from other, happier things. For roping her into taking care of her, somehow.
"I'm just gonna have a bath. I'll be okay," Betty says, trying her best, her absolute best, to make it sound genuine.
When she shuts the bathroom door, the latch clicking softly between the girls, Betty hears Veronica exhale and move away down the hall again. Tears spring to her eyes, like they'd spent the whole day under pressure and, actually, that was the truth.
Through extremely blurred vision, she manages to shed the rest of her clothing in a heap and turn the taps. Water starts filling the large soaker tub, and Betty cranks the 'hot' tap extra hard.
It's mostly a blur.
Stinging skin submerged into hot, hot water, angry and red. At first, she can feel the prick of her nails biting into her palms, pushing and slicing until there's a bit of red spreading and darting along her life line, marbling with the moisture from the bath water. But soon her nerves are numb to that particular bite.
When she takes to scrubbing her limbs with a loufa, the soap suds burn in the half-moons like they may as well be acid, and she hisses. Over and over, she scrapes the rigid edges of the sponge over her skin until it's soft and malleable in her hands from the water, the heat, and the work.
She's pink and tingling and the cool air of the bathroom outside the tub makes everything pucker painfully.
"Jug?"
Archie's voice called out to him from the kitchen, and when Jughead went to investigate, his ginger friend looked up from his phone with a serious expression.
He gives him a blank stare and a prompting gesture.
"Ronnie says that Betty isn't doing so good."
When she emerges later, Betty is swathed in her robe, the fibres catching against the patches of skin where she should probably not have scrubbed so hard. She notices at once that the apartment is empty, and she can't decide if she's more relieved or -
There's a loud, extended knock at the door, followed closely by another set, starling her with its sharp demand.
Betty wraps herself tighter, debating whether or not she wants to answer it.
Another set of impatient banging commences.
She's not sure who she's expecting, really, but it isn't Jughead. At least, it isn't Jughead with a frantic gleam in his eye, or Jughead missing his beanie, his hair windswept and untidy. It isn't Jughead with large, pleading eyes she's expecting; it isn't Jughead braced against her door frame, an iron rigidness in his limbs.
"Juggie?" she croaks. "What's wrong?"
"What's -" he starts, his voice cracking, and she feels a hot prickle on her waterline at the sound. "You're asking me what's wrong? Betty, I should be asking you. I am asking you; what's wrong?"
She sees him see her clench her firsts and she sees the decision to not let it go this time in his eyes and she knows he isn't going to leave until she gives him the truth. Jughead holds out his hand and she places one upturned fist into his waiting palm.
As soon as she lets her grip go slack, he can see the dark red half moons, she knows. His other hand flattened her fingers out gently, allowing him a closer, more complete look.
They stand there on the threshold together for a protracted amount of time, him just fixating on her palms and she knows, the cool air from the building swirling against the heated skin of her shins -
She knows that if it was anyone else focused so singlemindedly on her scars that she would be uncomfortable and defensive and panicking.
Maybe it's because she has nothing left, that she does nothing under his scrutiny, but maybe it's because it's just him.
She feels his eyes on her face again, flitting, not knowing where to settle, not knowing where to get answers from.
"Is that an accident, or did you do that to yourself?" his gaze in intense, and she starts to open her mouth to answer when she realises that she's not talking about her formerly bloody palms; he's looking at the juncture of her neck and shoulder instead.
Betty presses her fingers, unseeing, to whatever he's focused on and it stings. A patch of raw skin from her bath. She pulls the roll of soft, plush fabric there away from her skin, exposing more angry red swatches as she goes.
"Okay, that bit looks like it needs some Polysporin, we should take care of that," he breathes, and the spell is broken. It's suddenly painfully awkward that they're standing in the hallway with the door still wide open. She retreats wordlessly, and he follows her closely.
When she sinks onto the edge of her bed, he makes sure she's still before he leaves her line of sight and comes back a moment later with a first aid kit he must have found in the bathroom. Her robe is loose and sagging off her shoulders, the cool air biting into her. The straps of her tank are rough against her skin but she doesn't move.
Jughead busies himself with opening and inspecting the contents in the case, extracting a few carefully chosen items. He bends lower to catch her eye before reaching for her slowly, asking permission.
She gives a hiccupy noise she hopes he'll take as consent.
Betty realizes as she watches him spread the antiseptic over the raw patch near her collarbone, that he's done this before. Maybe not exactly this, but things very close to this. His head is bent down and he's focusing away from her gaze, and it allows her a chance to notice how dark his eyelashes are, to count the freckles along his jaw.
When he presses a bandage over her skin, sticking down the edges, he's surprisingly gentle.
"Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you say anything when - days ago?" Jughead's voice is quiet, almost whispered.
"I couldn't. It's like it…" she shakily raised a hand to brush her throat, miming a squeeze that was barely apparent and looked away from his wide, sad eyes.
Even uttering this much was too much, usually.
Her eyes are only half-open but she senses his intention before it happens, and so she's not all that startled when his arms wrap around her gently. He coaxes her closer, pulling her to his chest.
He doesn't even care that she's soaking through his shirt with her tears. It's the very last thing on his mind. And yet, when she pulls away finally, pink and blotchy, face covered in moisture, and with a desperate need to blow her nose, she looks guiltily at the dark, damp patch she's left behind.
"Don't even try to apologize, Betty. It's a shirt. It'll get over it."
He sees her swallow and give one lonely nod, more to herself than anything else.
"You look like you need rest," he moves to brush the skin under her eyes with his thumb but thinks better of it, rubbing her normal-coloured shoulder instead. "You should lay down. Do you need anything?"
"I don't - I don't want to be in my bed. I haven't been able to - to -"
He nods, sombre. Instead, he stands and pulls her with him, leading her out to the living room and into hopefully neutral territory. Somewhere she hasn't just spent the last week wallowing and crying and forgetting all the strong parts of her even existed.
Jughead continues out into the living room, and pulls her down gently next to him on the couch. He's flying blind here; he has no idea if staying is what she wants him to do, or going, or anything in between. But it feels right, so he settles in the corner of one sofa and holds his arm up for her to settle under, which she does without any hesitation.
Later, after telling him all about her mother, herself, and the things that she just couldn't keep from bubbling over, after she knows she's drifted off with one of his arms around her back and the other around her front, with his hands clasped together at her side, keeping her body close to his -
Later, she hears Veronica's voice.
"You're a godsend, Jughead."
She's weightless and swaying, and suddenly being tucked into bed and it feels like she's let everything else go, all of it, when she blearily reaches up as his warmth leaves her behind in her sheets -
"Don't go."
And he doesn't.
A/N: I'm fine, you're fine, we're all fine. Wait, I'm crying. Nevermind.
