Welcome back to another installment of Gaslight, my dark AU of season one. Thank you for all the follows and favourites. Please don't be shy to leave a review, say hi, ask questions. Reviews feed the muse.

Reviewer question: will FP be arrested? Great question. Without delving into spoilers, I can confirm FP's original storyline will shift due to the time lapse and his sobriety, but he is far from safe in Riverdale.

On to a new chapter, wherein several characters struggle beneath the weight of emotions, lies and things left unsaid.

Song: A Drowning - How To Destroy Angels (this one's very Cheryl, for me)
Disclaimer: Still don't own my toys, just my own original twists on the world of Riverdale. Disclaim, disclaim.


Four: A Drowning

"It's the looking back in anger
For every second slipping by
Undertow has come to take me
Guarded by the blazing sun
Look at everything around us, well
Look at everything we've done

Please, anyone?
I don't think I can
Save myself
I'm drowning here, please..."
A Drowning - How To Destroy Angels

I stand on the bank of Sweetwater River, eyes closed, listening to the water softly breaking over the rocky shoreline. It is early morning and although the sun has risen, its warmth cannot reach me. If I were to step into the grey water, soak my clothes and curl up on a nearby boulder, I imagine I would feel much like Cheryl Blossom did that fateful Fourth of July.

I am no stranger to loss. Few of us are.

I imagine a gunshot, hear it shatter the tranquility of what was once a beloved place for leisure in Riverdale. I picture myself as Dilton Doiley, leading his troop on a bird watching expedition two miles away. I picture myself finding the crimson-haired cheerleader on the shore, beside herself with grief.

Innocence is lost in so many ways.

I cornered Dilton last week at an Adventure Scouts meeting, pulling him away from his beloved pack. It took some persuasion and a little intel from a scout, but Betty's instincts had bore fruit: that mystery shot Cheryl had claimed to hear? The little girl hadn't cried wolf, after all. Dilton had pulled the trigger. And while the Blossom twins set out on their final journey together, Dilton was noticing Ms Grundy's car. The car where Archie lost his innocence and, for a time, his mind.

I open my eyes, surveying the scene. I can triangulate their respective positions, marvel at how they maintained just enough distance to neither corroborate nor disprove each other's stories. The one true fact is that a gun was fired that day by a Scoutmaster with a survivalist mentality—and it was not the gunshot that killed Jason Blossom.

There's more to the story Cheryl has been desperately shilling, but I cannot bring myself to unravel her just yet. Riverdale High is dedicating a maple tree to Jason tonight, in the very place I now stand. The darkness clings to his sister now, weighing her down like the waterlogged dress of her nightmare.

It dances after Betty, snatching at her ankles as she rushes from class to class to practice. I try to engage her, but the shadows snare her, dragging what remains of the friend I love beneath the surface. My arms reach out to save her, but they falter, tangled in the kelp of a broken home and late-night calls to a ten year-old who listens to Pink Floyd on a cheap Crossley turntable.

You see, it doesn't take water for someone to drown. Most of us manage it just fine in the open air.

Jughead tugged anxiously at the hem of his sweater, studying his reflection in the dingy mirror. A memorial called for a level of decorum that his poverty didn't exactly allow for, but the thrift store had delivered a navy blue miracle, price tag still in place. It was a little small, but wool was far more forgiving than the upper crust of Riverdale's north side.

"You look so damn grown up."

Jughead startled, spinning around to find his father lingering in the bedroom doorway. FP looked tired, but still sober—as much as surprise to himself as his son, it seemed. Jughead frowned, giving the hem one last firm tug. That'll do.

"Thanks," he managed at last.

FP tilted his head, studying the room. "You going to that memorial?"

Gesturing to the camera on his bed, he nodded. "Covering it for the Blue and Gold."

"Huh."

Silence fell heavily upon them, a crushing weight that drove the air from Jughead's lungs. He thought back to the morning, to that murky river water and its death-hands. Remembered wondering how it would feel to drown, despite Jason perishing in a much more sinister fashion.

"I'm really glad you came home, Jug." FP's eyes bored holes into him, and he couldn't help but stare at his scuffed black boots. "I was there, you know. When they pulled Jason's body from the river. They tried to keep people away, but I saw him before they zipped the bag shut…"

His father's hand gripped the door jamb tightly, knuckles white. His eyes misted over and he was miles away for a moment, but only one.

"What happened was terrible, Dad. It's changed Riverdale." Boldly, he added, "Maybe it's changed some people for the better."

FP laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Or maybe some people are too fucking scared to live without their senses sharp as a knife."

Jughead edged forward, heart in throat. "What are you afraid of?"

"Losing you and Jelly," FP mumbled, fisting his hair. "Like I told you… I don't ever want to do what the Blossoms did. I don't ever want to bury my child."

He's hiding something.

"Dad, I don't cause trouble. I go to school, I come home."

"Don't have to cause the trouble to be in trouble," FP pronounced ominously. "Sometimes, trouble finds you. Jason would tell you that… Anyway, I have a meeting now, but I can pick you up after the memorial, maybe?"

Jughead shook his head. "Archie and I are going to Pop's afterwards. It's okay, Dad. Go to your meeting. I'll be fine, I promise."

His father embraced him without warning, the firm grip almost painful. Jughead let himself collapse into his arms, remembering childhood years when his father was his hero. Distant days where his father would hoist him on his shoulders at a carnival, or play catch for hours. For a moment, he was six, skinned knees and palms covered in grease, eager to help repair a motorcycle. He was eight, begging his dad to read him another scary story by the fire pit. He was—

And suddenly, it was gone. FP pulled away as abruptly as he'd reached out, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his Serpents jacket, leaving Jughead baffled and bereft.

"See you tonight," FP mumbled, rushing out of the trailer with a slamming of the metal door.

As his father's truck roared to life outside, he sank to his knees and let out a single, anguished sob.


They rode in silence: a trio of lifelong friends with so much history, yet so little to say.

Fred Andrews played chauffeur, nudging the radio a little higher once he'd clued in on how awkward the teens felt. No questions were asked, and no answers were volunteered.

For Jughead, the conversation with his father weighed heavily on his mind. His father loved him—he knew it in the marrow of his bones—but his explanation of his epiphany (and subsequent sobriety) only rang half-true. He knew something about Jason's death. Maybe it was a rumour, a whisper around the streets of the Southside. Maybe it was only a theory, but one he was certain held water. But he knew something more than empathy for grieving parents.

Betty sat beside him, her fingers twitching in her lap. Jughead could almost hear her rehearsing that checklist they'd come up with as they studied their murder board in the office. The perks of having the sheriff's son as an ally, he supposed. They'd divided duties the previous day: Jughead, under the guise of taking photos of the memorial, would study the crowd, snapping images of anyone or anything unusual; Betty, taking notes, would eavesdrop and hope for insight into why Jason had wanted to run away.

Their arrival was early, but only just: several others were making the trek down the well-worn path to the chosen tree. A simple, yet elegant, sign directed them to the left to park. Betty's fist curled tightly in her lap as Fred's truck swung into a makeshift parking space. Jughead's hand shot out to cover hers, squeezing it lightly.

"You okay, Betts?"

"Yeah. I'm just sad about Jason. Sad for Polly, too." She flashed a smile to reassure him, although it didn't reach her eyes.

Knowing how to pick a battle, Jughead accepted her charade and slipped out of the truck. Archie had warned him that the entire team—Chuck included—was expected at the memorial, and sure enough, Chuck's Lexus was already parked nearby.

Bite your tongue, Jughead. Hold it in. There's important work to be done.

Archie, also sensing Betty's discomfort, looped an arm around his friend's shoulder. Betty startled slightly, glancing up and relaxing at the familiar face beside her. She leaned into his shoulder and sighed.

"Thanks, Archie."

"Anytime, Betty."

Fred gestured up the path and the teens nodded their assent, following dutifully behind him. Archie kept a protective arm around Betty, his face revealing a mixture of confusion and relief. Jughead felt a twinge of envy, but also understood that their friendship desperately needed this olive branch. He flanked Betty on the opposite side, reflexively falling into step with her.

The Three Musketeers, Betty had joked often in grade school. Inseparable and greater in strength when united.

Camera at the ready, Jughead found his first subject at the memorial site in the stiff posture and narrowed eyes of Chuck Clayton. Snapping quickly, feigning a test shot, he noted the tension in the football player's neck as he immediately made his way to Betty.

"Andrews," Clayton spat. "I didn't expect you here, with Betty."

Betty fidgeted, acutely aware that Archie still had her tucked beneath his arm. Archie, to Jughead's delight, stood his ground.

"My father drove us all here. As you can see, my best friend is saddened by the loss of Jason. That's why we're here, isn't it?"

"Arch—"

"Yes, it is. And if Betty needs anything, I will provide it," Clayton growled.

"Chuck, please…"

Her voice was so soft, so unsure. So very ignored by the testosterone twins battling it out over her. She needed an out.

"Actually, Betty is here to report for the Blue and Gold, which means we need to go set up near the podium. Excuse us."

Seizing her hand, Jughead pulled Betty away from them. Clearly rattled, she didn't protest until Jughead ushered her into place near the front. Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp of indignation, then closed again. Shrugging, Jughead adjusted a few settings on the loaner DSLR camera.

"Chuck is going to be very angry," she whispered.

"You're welcome," Jughead muttered.

"Juggie, I'm serious."

He stared at her intently, noting how her tension mirrored Chuck's moments before, with one distinction: Betty's shoulders drooped, while Chuck's chest had puffed out in dominance. He leaned closer, his lips nearly grazing her ear.

"If your boyfriend scares you, then maybe he's a shitty abuser you should be rid of."

Her stunned silence was all the answer he needed.

The memorial was fast becoming a crowd, bodies clustered and pressed into mini-cliques. The cafeteria's division of turf, replicated in dark clothes and nice shoes sinking into dampened earth from the previous day's thunderstorm. Betty shook off his words quickly, taking dutiful notes as a series of speakers elaborated on Jason's contributions to Riverdale, his caring personality and the tragedy of a life ended so young.

Jughead was mildly disappointed that Cheryl Blossom hadn't shown up in her river outing dress, as he'd been told she'd elected to do at the funeral. Clearly distraught, she clung to her father's arm as one might cling to a life preserver in choppy waters. Her black dress was couture, of course—a Blossom would never dare suppress a sense of style—but it was modest for the epitome of a Riverdale Vixen. Her glittering gold pumps were the only trace of the Cheryl he knew and loathed—the princess desperately seeking validation.

Archie stood with his father, the lone football player apart from the pack. Chuck held the centre of the jocks, his eyes boring holes into an oblivious Betty. Weaving slowly among the Blossoms and socialite friends deemed worthy of a front row view, she listened to what was said, and what wasn't. Her pencil flew, jotting down bits of speeches, along with observations in her typical shorthand. Of all her scribbles, the one that intrigued him most was Gma? Pol? A reminder to watch Good Morning, America, or an insight gleaned from the crowd?

As Clifford and Penelope Blossom stepped forward for the final dedication, Jughead noticed Cheryl had begun to pace in small, slow circles. His camera caught her mid-stride, her loose curls half-obscuring her features. His shoulder nudged Betty's lightly and she caught on. Still making notes, she drifted towards Cheryl, whispering something quietly to perhaps console her. Cheryl remained motionless, unseeing gaze fixed on the river behind her parents.

Betty stepped away sadly, clearly at a loss, but didn't get far: Cheryl's hand flew out, grabbing her wrist. Jughead edged forward, prepared to intervene, but it wasn't necessary. Ruby red lips parted, spilling a secret long stashed away in an angry heart.

"Your sister is why JJ wanted to leave town."

Betty pulled free, stumbling towards him in shock. As he had done so many times in their youth, when bullies had teased Betty for being too smart, too cheery or simply too different from most children their age, Jughead reached for her hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

"Breathe," he murmured.

"I'm fine," she lied.

A polite applause marked the formal dedication of Jason Blossom's plaque-adorned maple tree. Punctuating her parents' performative speech, Cheryl Blossom collapsed to the wet ground in a dead faint with a gasp.


The clock chimed nine as Archie, Jughead, Betty and Veronica sat in a corner booth, sipping a second round of milkshakes. It wasn't the welcome home party Veronica had wanted, but Betty had insisted it was the night she was most readily available. No movies would be watched tonight, but dinner was had and with food came a contented Jughead. A laughing, joking Betty Cooper? That made him the happiest guy in town.

There she is. Our Betty.

Archie had noticed it, too, and couldn't stop grinning. Every so often, he'd lock eyes with Jughead and raise an eyebrow. You see it? Jughead would smirk and tease Betty, earning a playful slap in the arm or a carefree giggle. I see it.

"Oh B, that article you wrote last week about Weatherbee's hypocrisy in underfunding the Vixens? Fabulous." Veronica raised her milkshake in a toast. "Thanks to you, we'll actually get jackets to wear over our skimpy booty shorts."

"Cheerleading is as much of a sport as football and therefore, it should be funded like any other sport at Riverdale High." Betty toyed with the ends of her ponytail, smirking. "I did love the part where I got Mayor McCoy to agree with my assessment that diminishing women's sports teams would be setting a dangerously sexist precedent."

Archie frowned. "Okay, I'm probably about to shove my foot down my throat—"

"Famous last words," Jughead snarked.

"Hey! Seriously, though: I'm all for treating things equally, but football requires a hell of a lot of gear that isn't cheap and cheerleading is basically outfits and batons. Does the cheerleading team actually need equal funding?"

Veronica giggled. "Oh, Archiekins, you can be so oblivious. First of all, our booty shorts? They need regular replacement. They're moulded to our asses like panties. Secondly, that wasn't even the point."

"It wasn't?"

"No, the point is that Weatherbee can't assume the team needs 10% of what he gives to the football team. He should start with equal funding for everyone, then reallocate unused funds to teams in need of extra assistance," Betty explained patiently. "So, after we get our uniforms refreshed, our jackets done and our flaming batons, the football team can spend our leftovers on jockstraps and Dude Wipes, for all I care.'

Jughead snorted. "If you use Dude Wipes, my respect for you is about to plummet."

"I don't even know what a Dude Wipe is!" Archie shouted, drawing the amused ears of a nearby table. "Wait, how do you know what they are, Betty?"

"Because she used to stare at the asses of UFC fighters when we would watch fights at your house in grade six," Jughead teased.

Betty's cheeks flushed crimson. "What?! I did not!"

"Oh Betty, come on! I hardly think your bestest friends will judge you for having a sex drive." Veronica winked, leaning forward. "Tell us: who has the best ass in MMA?"

"I don't have a favourite ass!" Betty was beet red, laughing so hard she could scarcely breathe.

"Everyone has a favourite," Jughead insisted. "Come on, Betts, 'fess up."

"Oh, everyone has one? Who's your favourite ass, then?"

"That Sonnen guy always seemed like an asshole, but he was an amusing asshole," Jughead deadpanned.

Archie and Veronica laughed as Betty tossed a straw wrapper at Jughead's face. "Under those criteria, maybe you're my favourite ass, then!"

Jughead pulled his straw from his chocolate shake and, in one swift motion, flicked it against Betty's forehead. A small dollop of ice cream slid down the bridge of her nose, to the amusement of their friends. Plunking his straw back into his glass, he turned to Archie and grinned.

"I'm the favourite."

A cold, wet burst collided with his cheekbone and he returned his attention to Betty, a spoon in her hand and a chocolate ice cream sheen on her skin. His finger scraped the vanilla shake from his skin and popped it in his mouth. He tilted his head, as if deep in thought, then shook his head.

"Nope, still prefer chocolate."

The jukebox shuffled songs and Veronica immediately clapped her hands. "Ooh! I love this song! Betty, let's dance!"

"V, I don't know…"

"Come on!"

Veronica pulled Betty to her feet, singing along with Fun's We Are Young at the top of her lungs. Pop Tate glanced up briefly from his grill, shrugging and laughing. At least Veronica could carry a tune. Jughead wiped away the remnants of shake on his cheek and smiled.

"The Betty we know and love came with us tonight."

Archie grinned. "Like old times. I missed this, you know? You, me, Betty… And Veronica is good for her."

In the aisle of the diner, Veronica twirled Betty around then swooped her into a messy version of a tango, still singing: "So let's set the world on fire! We can burn brighter than the sun!"

"Yeah, she is. I think she's the one behind Betty asking me to write for the paper."

"Um, boys? This dance floor is big enough for four," Veronica insisted.

"Yeah, that's a hard pass," Jughead replied.

"No thanks, Ronnie. We'd just trample your toes," Archie added.

Veronica pouted and swayed to the music. "Boys suck!"

For one more minute, the world was beaming with light and promise. For one more minute, Betty was singing and smiling, and Jughead let himself believe it was just for him. And then, a phone rang. Betty's phone.

"I have to get that," she blurted out, reaching for the table.

"No way!" Veronica shouted, snatching Betty's phone away. "This is our night. This is Jughead's party. You promised—"

"I won't be long. Just give it to me, V."

A fourth ring. A fifth, as Veronica held the phone over her head and darted away. Betty pawed the air, but Veronica was quicker, anticipating Betty's moves.

"You promised, Betty Cooper! We all agreed to no interruptions."

A sixth ring, then silence.

"Veronica, it could be my mother. You know how she is!"

Jughead's heart began to pound. Betty was panicking. Over a phone call. The only phone calls worth panicking over involved Ivy League schools, cops or hospitals. Yet, it was there: the wide eyes, the ashen features, the shallow breath of one coming unglued.

Veronica wagged a finger. "Nope, I saw the display. It was your downer of a boyfriend. He can be a big boy and amuse himself for a night."

A ring. Another. Archie was worried. Jughead was struggling with Betty's pained expression—specifically, with how very much it reminded him of his mother's.

"This isn't funny, Veronica!"

No, no it wasn't. Because Jughead knew what was wrong now, knew why their Betty had disappeared into a shell of herself. And as much as he wanted to give a certain football coach's son a little payback, there was a more urgent task at hand.

Calmly rising to his feet, he swiped Betty's phone back from Veronica and handed it to Betty. "No calls, just text," he told her.

It was a line he felt safe to draw, and Betty quickly assented. Her fingers flew over the keys, tapping out a lengthy message he was certain involved at least three iterations of I'm sorry. The blonde slumped into the booth, glaring at Veronica.

"Oh B, don't be like that. It was a phone call!"

"You just don't understand."

"Try me," Veronica pressed.

More furious texting. Betty's green irises misted over with tears. "I'm tired. Can we call it a night?"

"Fine." Veronica rose, storming over to the cash to settle their tab.

"Betty, that was kinda harsh."

She glared at Archie. "Don't you start, too. It's my phone. Mine. I'm an adult and I can decide who to talk to and when, alright?"

"Okay, Betty," Archie mumbled. "I'm sorry."

She patted his hand briefly, reassuring him that all would soon be forgotten. Veronica, on the other hand, left with an abrupt goodbye before the trio made their way down the street: Jughead and Archie to the Andrews home; Betty to hers. Little was said, aside from inane comments on the weather and mentions of quizzes already scheduled. Now and then, Betty would text furiously, but keeping her word, she did not make any calls.

One promising thing: Betty paused to hug each of them goodbye. A genuine embrace, tight and comforting. A glimmer of their Betty had followed them home. As she wrapped her arms around him, Jughead whispered in her ear.

"You owe me an explanation. I'll be over soon."

Her nervous nod assured him that she would wait up. "Goodnight, guys. I'm sorry I killed the mood."

Ever agreeable, Archie shrugged. "It's okay. Betty. We're just happy we could spend some time with you."

"It was so good to hang out with you two, like we used to. I promise, we'll do something soon." Hugging herself, Betty turned and headed up her driveway, disappearing behind the fence dividing the Cooper and Andrews properties.

Fumbling for his keys, Archie shook his head. "I hate what Clayton's done to her."

You don't even realize the half of it, Jughead silently seethed.

"Coming, Jug?"

He shook his head, rolling his neck. "I need to talk a walk. Clear my head. You go in, I'll be back in thirty, tops."

The best part about having a friend from birth? He seldom asked questions. Patting him once on the back, Archie passed his keys over and headed inside. He pocketed them quickly and approached the Cooper home, looping around the rear to where a ladder lay next to the shed. For reasons unknown to him, the Coopers seldom stored it in their garage. It was no wonder the Cooper girls snuck out so frequently. Their parents were practically encouraging it.

Gently, he lined the ladder up with Betty's window and ascended. He moved slowly, mindful of the potential for noise. Reaching her window, he tapped lightly on the glass with a single knuckle. Inside her room, Betty spun around and rushed forward to open the pane.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," he quipped, pulling himself inside.

"So you're sneaking through my window now?" she whispered.

"I only do this for my best friends, Betts. You should feel honoured."

Her cheeks flushed pink as she looked away; he only hoped she couldn't see the heat in his own. Clearing his throat, Jughead leaned against her desk.

"Are we safe to talk here?" At her quizzical look, he clarified, "Mom and Pop Cooper. Sound sleepers?"

"Oh. Yes, medicated or natural, they're both deep sleepers. All the same, we should keep it down."

She sunk onto her bed, hands fidgeting in her lap. Jughead studied her a moment, wondering whether a direct question would work, or if he should just sit in silence until she felt compelled to fill it. He hoped for the latter, knowing if he called things as he saw them, his lingering rage over his own miserable life experiences might sour things quickly.

"You wanted to talk?" Betty prompted nervously.

"That was the deal. I got your phone back, but you need to explain why you went off on Veronica."

In the shallow light of her bedside lamp, Betty's features looked hollow. For a moment, his mind meandered into years of morbid true crime reading and the hollows gave way to a glistening skull. His heart ground to a halt as she expired in stop-motion in his fevered imagination.

No! Not her!

Her delicate hands smoothed her skirt, picking at invisible lint. "She just doesn't understand why Chuck is the way he is. He's needy. I'm not going to say he isn't. But he's insecure, and I get that, Jug."

"He's insecure," Jughead echoed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yes! His father is his coach. He expects him to get a full ride to a top college." Betty shrugged sadly. "I know what it's like to bear the weight of your parents' dreams."

He drummed his fingers absently against her desk, swallowing down his frustration. He knew these lines, knew the games men could play. Of course Chuck was insecure and struggling with parental pressure. It was his angle, the way he'd hooked her in the first place. Jughead knew false bravado better than anyone, and Chuck wasn't an example of it. Chuck was oozing true arrogance.

"I know what your parents have put you through, Betty. Just like you know a lot about mine." He rose slowly, crossing the room towards her. "But have you considered that being at his beck and call like this is actually enabling him? That he won't ever feel secure unless you force him to try?"

It was a gamble, and potentially a dangerous strategy, should she listen. But he would work that out with Archie and Veronica. They would keep a close eye on their friend. As much as Jughead wished he was dead wrong, he knew in his gut what Chuck's true motive was: power.

"I… No, no I guess not. It's just… Never mind." She flopped backwards onto her bed and stared at the pale pink ceiling. "You wouldn't understand."

"We've been best friends since kindergarten. Try me," Jughead urged, sitting down beside her.

"Last year, with you gone and Archie… I was really lonely. I mean, I had friends, but I was alone. Chuck was kind to me. He helped me snap out of this… darkness that I couldn't shake. So if he needs help…"

Ah… she's rescuing him, in her mind. Just like Veronica thought. "You feel you owe him that help. You have a big heart, Betty Cooper. Maybe too big."

She shimmied her way up the bed, turning on her side. "There's no such thing as being too kind."

Jughead drew a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. "But kindness can be wasted on someone who doesn't give it back. Like a guy who calls you stupid for not meeting you at the right time before class."

"Chuck just handles things differently, that's all. He's very punctual. I know he hates to be kept waiting."

She bit her lip, a long-standing tell she had whenever she was unsure of a statement. His hand stretched out of its own volition, his fingers brushing against the faint indentations of her teeth. Don't hurt yourself for this manipulative asshole. He's not worthy of you. She sighed softly, closing her eyes for a long moment.

"I missed this," she murmured.

"Missed what?"

"You, making sense of things. Or just listening." Her eyes fluttered open, emerald irises fixed on him. "I can tell you don't like Chuck, but you're listening to my side. That means a lot to me."

It was a knife in his heart, but he forced a smile and twisted the blade deeper. "I missed this, too. You realize this is the most we've said to each other since January?"

Her jaw quivered slightly. "I was a lousy pen pal. More than that, I've been a terrible friend. Can you forgive me, Juggie?"

Helpless, his heart hurting, he nodded. "But only this once. One free pass per lifetime of friendship."

"Deal." She patted the bed beside her, lips curving into a half-smile. "Lie down with me?"

Jughead swallowed hard and swung his legs around, curving his body in a reflection of hers. Their faces scant inches apart, the air grew thinner and his head began to spin. He was lost in her: that familiar scent of strawberries and cream; those long lashes framing her eyes; the stray wisp of hair tumbling free of her trademark ponytail. The shadows around her orbits—faint and well concealed with makeup, but thick and purple up close—worried him. Was she not sleeping?

"I should apologize to Veronica," she murmured sadly.

"Yeah, you should. But she'll forgive you," he reassured her. "She knows she pushes buttons."

"Mmhmm." Her right hand clenched into a tight fist on the blanket between them.

"Betts, she will. You know that she will." His hand covered hers, squeezing gently until she unfurled her fingers.

A single, shaky breath, and her face relaxed. "Promise?"

"Promise." It was a promise he'd keep, even if he had to talk sense into the vivacious Latina.

Betty burrowed her head deeper into her pillow. "So, do you think Cheryl faked that fainting spell to piss off the Blossoms, or was it legit?"

"You know, at first I thought it might be staged. Revenge for the way they treated her after the funeral. But my gut says that being back there, where they parted ways… it was a lot to take in. I mean, if something like that had happened to Archie, or you…"

"Yeah. Polly didn't want to come today. Did I tell you she's coming home soon?"

"No! That's really good news, Betts. I know how much you miss her."

Her lips curled into a half-smile. "Yeah, I do. If nothing else, it'll be nice to have an ally at home. Two versus two. Speaking of Polly, something really weird happened at the memorial today. Jason's grandmother pulled on my arm to get me to stop and talk to her."

"I saw that. I'd assumed she was asking about Polly."

Betty shook her head. "Oh, no. She thought that I was Polly. And it gets weirder, Jug. She told me it was smart not to wear the ring."

Jughead's eyes widened. "A ring? What ring?"

"I don't know, but now I'm wondering if that had something to do with Jason's plan to leave town. Cheryl said Polly was his reason to run. What if Polly knows about his plan?"

"Wait, you still haven't spoken to her?"

Betty shook her head. "Just a letter. My parents have been really, really weird about it."

"They're a little weird about everything, but I know what you mean. When is she coming home?"

"It won't be much longer. They won't tell me for sure." Her hand pressed to her lips, stifling a yawn. "I'm just glad it's soon."

Weary, yet reluctant to give up the comfort of being beside her, Jughead forced himself to put her needs first. "It's late. You should get some sleep."

"S'okay, I'm not sleepy," she lied.

"You are a terrible liar."

"I can lie!" she protested.

Jughead snorted. "Oh, you can lie. Nobody believes you, but you try."

"Be nice, Jughead Jones!"

"Get some sleep, Elizabeth Cooper!"

She giggled, stifling a second yawn. "Fine, fine. I'm sorry I'm keeping you from a hot date."

Oh, Betty. You're the only date I want.

"Oh yeah, video games with Archie. So hot."

He reluctantly rose from the bed, rolling his neck slowly. She rose, too, tugging her hair free of her ponytail. He inhaled sharply, fighting the urge to touch the soft waves tumbling messily around her cheeks. Instead, he slid the window open slowly, prolonging the inevitable for a few extra seconds.

You're pathetic, Jones.

"Are you staying for Sunday dinner with Fred?" she asked softly.

"Probably. I know my dad is planning to come, so it seems like a waste of time to go home and come right back."

Her fingers toyed with the hem of her top. "Think Fred would mind if I stopped by, too?"

Jughead grinned. "What, with your bird-like appetite? He'll have to make a whole extra scoop of mashed potatoes! Such a burden."

"Maybe you could cook for once, instead of eating us all out of house and home," she teased.

"If you promise to come to dinner, I will cook the potatoes. And I'll have you know that I have mastered a garlic smashed potato."

"Well, I guess I'm coming to dinner!"

She embraced him suddenly, catching him off guard. His arms folded around her tightly, his face buried in her hair. After twelve plus years, it never stopped surprising him. The warm hugs, the moments where she called him one of her very best friends—they always shocked him. Archie had been his friend by default since birth, but Betty had chosen them on the first day of school, and he still couldn't understand why. In his life, given a choice, people generally chose to leave him, or ignore him. Betty was an exception, one he was forever grateful for. Even if she never saw him as more than a friend, his life was better with her in it.

A whisper in his ear. "G'night, Juggie."

"Night, Betts."

She pulled away, nudging her window open. "Be careful."

"Don't you worry about me."

With one long look at her sleepy visage, Jughead swung his legs out onto the ladder and made his careful descent. Somehow, he wasn't surprised to look up and find Betty watching over him. She was a protective soul.

If only you were as protective with yourself, he mused sadly as he crossed the yard to the Andrews home. But I'm here now. I'm watching him. And I'm not going anywhere.